Should've Thought of That One, Bori
by Eggo Waffles
Summary: We all wish that Boromir had survived Amon Hen, but have we ever considered the implications? Parody AU
1. I'm Not Dead Yet!

**Disclaimers:** Ownership is relative—one may own everything, or one may own nothing. In this instance, I own nothing.

**Further Disclaimers:** Somewhere, somehow, there's always someone who fails to realize that they're reading a parody. If you are that person, then this disclaimer is for you.

THIS IS A PARODY. Spell it with me: P—A—R—O—D—Y. Anything that is unsanitary, inaccurate, overexaggerated, melodramatic, blasphemous, or generally incongruous with canon or the universal laws of decent writing is present for purely satirical reasons. That being said, all questionable elements will be reasonably sanitized, and little more than implied, more often than not. If you A) cannot abide the abuse of canon, even in jest, B) cannot abide the ruthless disparagement of clichéd fanfiction, even in jest, or C) cannot abide me and my smarmy wise-assed parodies, then I recommend that you READ ELSEWHERE.

**A/N:** Well, now that I've successfully weeded that one person out…

I will not attempt to deny that I read a great deal of AU fanfiction. In fact, I have no idea what I would do in the absence of AU fanfiction. It happens that copious amounts of AU fanfiction are only known remedy for Post-FotR Depression, which I experience heavily on a regular basis. However, this doesn't mean that I'm not above making fun of it mercilessly. Thus said, I give you the first installment of "Should've Thought of That One, Bori", parodying my very favorite type of AU— in which Boromir survives Amon Hen.

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The first of Boromir's senses to return was that of smell.

Not that this was in any way a pleasurable faculty at the moment. The most prominent aromas on the wind at this point in time were blood, sweat, and river scum. Boromir was displeased at this and mentally requested that his nose return to its previous state of dormancy. It didn't. He cursed it inwardly. We wish he wouldn't, since it is a very charming nose indeed. But we digress.

Vision came next. Boromir's eyes were closed, so this didn't make a jot of difference. He considered opening them, but was distracted by the restoration of sense (3), which was that of touch, or feeling.

As his nerve endings ignited back into awareness, it became apparent to Boromir that he was in a great deal of physical Pain. His other two remaining senses excused themselves briefly, and returned when they assumed that he had come to terms with his agony. He hadn't. Three gaping arrow wounds are a rather big thing for a person to come to terms with in a space of thirty seconds. Not that Boromir was privy to the fact that he had three gaping arrow wounds. All he knew was that he was in a great deal of general, excruciating, physical Pain.

He groaned soundlessly. As ragged breath tore through his mouth and dashed screaming down his throat, sense (4) enveloped his tongue in rancid flavor. He could taste blood now, as well as smell it. This was not at all Pleasant.

His sense of feeling was on system overload at the moment, but was gradually sending signals of body movement to Boromir's brain. He became suddenly, horribly aware that he was being violently rattled and jolted, and added Nausea to his current list of discomforts.

His ears left him another few moments to revel in his newfound anguish before his hearing was reinstated.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a terrible roaring noise, churning and screaming and pounding and Boromir could smell river scum and he could feel rushing wind and he was pitching up and down mercilessly and his clothes were wet and his nose was cold and then he finally opened his eyes and no sixth sense was needed to tell him that he was at the point of tipping over the brink of a monstrous waterfall.

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Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli watched the funeral boat as it made its solemn, albeit wobbly journey toward the zenith of the Rauros-falls.

Aragorn leaned against his sword and tried very hard to look mournful, even though he had always thought that Boromir was a bastard and was sick of his nagging and was on the whole rather glad that such a nuisance had been got rid of.

Gimli sat on a rock and fiddled with his axe, not bothering to try to look mournful because he had always thought that Boromir was a bastard and was sick of his nagging and was on the whole rather glad that such a nuisance had been got rid of and didn't really care who knew it.

Legolas stood and preened, because that's what Legolas does.

At all events, all three were suddenly distracted by a high-pitched girlish squeal that would have shattered all the glass in the vicinity, had there been any glass in the vicinity (there wasn't), and effectively drowned out the deafening thunder of the waterfall.

"What the…" Aragorn began, before being cut off by the advent of another octave-shattering screech. He was immediately prompted to another series of fragmented declarations as the figure of the man he had assumed was dead sat up somewhat woozily, his outline dark against the flying spray. "I… it… I thought… it was… it can't… but he was… but they were… oh _Valar_…" A third shriek rent the air.

This was quickly succeeded by exclamations of much less ladylike manner.

A sample is provided. Understand that the circumstances were dire.

"**(Censored)**EruIlúvatarwhatthe**(censored)**amIdoinginthis**(censored)**boatwhatthe**(censored)**I'mnot**(censored)**_dead_you**(censored)**idiots**(censored)**youAragornthisisallyour**(censored)**faultohValaristhata**(censored)**waterfalloh**(censored)**this!"

There was a loud splash as Boromir ejected himself from the doomed vessel and sunk promptly to the bottom of the Anduin.

"He's going to drown," said Gimli, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Aragorn made a halfhearted stab at decency. "We've got to help him…. somehow… I think…"

The Dwarf snorted. "Well, _I'm_ not going in after him."

The Dúnadan glanced hopefully at Legolas, who was idly picking his immaculate fingernails. "I don't swim," he said in reply to the unasked question, tossing his golden hair and cocking his head like the innocent young girl… er, _Elf_, that he was.

Aragorn stared at the rough-watered Anduin, armed folded tight across his chest uncomfortably. Tentatively he approached the lapping shore and inserted a toe into the water gingerly. "It's cold," he said lamely, and tried to work out the situation in his head. The last time Merry and Pippin had seen Boromir, he was sorely wounded, so they would assume he was dead… Legolas and Gimli… they could be kept silent with an ample sum… there was no one else to blab, and that water looked awfully nasty…

Didn't Denethor and his other son have prophetic dreams?

"Dammit, he was _supposed_ to have died already," muttered Aragorn huffily as he surveyed the swirling current and weighed his chances.

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Had Boromir been aware of the statistics, he might have known that he was actually a great deal safer at the bottom of the Anduin than in almost any other location in Middle-earth.

Looking over the records of characters who have found themselves at the bottom of the Anduin throughout the course of their lives, one may see that the chances of one's drowning in such a situation are slim to none. Consider the cases of Deagol, Aragorn, Samwise, and the Nazgûl, all of whom survived their sojourn in the River despite overwhelming odds. We may also note Frodo, who failed to drown in the Dead Marshes.

Isildur alone breaks this pattern. Moreover, he and Boromir are alike in many respects, both of them having been tempted by the Ring and both of whom had been recently impaled by a number of arrows. However, Isildur is most closely related to Aragorn, who did not, as previously noted, perish, even though he had also suffered a long fall from a sheer cliff.

All in all, Boromir's chances are very good. We shall wait and see what happens next.

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"I don't believe it," cried Gimli incredulously. "He's _swimming."_

The Elf and the Dwarf craned their necks, peering at the bobbing figure.

"And against the current!"

"Despite being weighed down with chain mail!"

"Despite being mortally wounded in three places!"

"Damn that Húrin," grumbled the future King. "He's always stealing my thunder…"

After fifteen laborious minutes during which Aragorn scowled and Gimli yawned and Legolas preened and Boromir swam like hell, the High Warden of the White Tower hauled himself onto the riverbank.

"_Heal_ me, damn you—aren't you supposed to be the King of Gondor, or something?" he gasped moodily at Aragorn before sinking into the relief of oblivion.

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**A/N:** I think I may have fun with this. Whether you enjoy it as much as I do will, of course, be up to your own discretion. Reviews are encouraged, as always.

If you were worried—Faramir will make his appearance when the time comes, I promise.


	2. A Crash Course in Healing

**Disclaimers:** If I owned LotR, I would already have written a horribly cheesy ten-part epic called "SONS OF GONDOR: The Story of Boromir and Faramir" and adapted it into a horribly cheesy ten-part film featuring Sean Bean and David Wenham and myself as an extra, just for the hell of it, and… yeah, so I don't own LotR.

**A/N:** A thousand thank-yous to all my froody reviewers. You guys make my day. Cyber-hugs all around.

This story has been an inordinate amount of fun to write so far, though I had to compose two separate versions of this chapter before I was satisfied. So… what d'you think?

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_Heal_ him?

Aragorn was mystified.

"What does he expect me to _do?_" the Dúnedain Chieftain cried, gazing dubiously at Boromir's sodden form, which was lying face-down on the gravelly bank, still half-immersed in water. "He took three bloody fatal wounds! I thought we'd settled this fifteen minutes ago!" He prodded the limp body with his boot. It emitted a low groan like the creaking hinges of an elderly door.

"OMG wtf arigorn mabie he wants u 2 use ur sooper-kewl elfan heeling powerz htat u learnd frum elroond," exclaimed Legolas breathlessly.

There was a long pause. Not a silent one, given the way that two hundred tons of falling water can intrude on the poignancy of a private conversation, but a pause notwithstanding.

"What?" remarked Gimli, presently.

"Er, nothing," muttered Legolas embarrassedly, his ivory-white skin turning several interesting shades of mortified fuchsia as he worried the loose end of his white-gold braid and minutely examined the toes of his shoes. "Just a little slip-up…"

"Right, then," said Aragorn, feeling oddly wrongfooted, the way one might feel if one walked in on one's father taking a bath. He covered his confusion by peering down morosely at Boromir and repeating his previous query. "What does he expect me to _do?_ I'm no healer. I'm just a grimy Gondorian ex-Ranger who wears women's jewelry and avoids political duty."

"We could always leave him here," suggested Gimli.

Aragorn sighed. "No, we can't."

"Why _not?"_ whined the Dwarf peevishly.

"Because he comes from Húrin house."

"What's being a Hoora-whatsit got to do with it?" Gimli demanded.

"They have visions—prophetic dreams and the lot."

"_So?"_

"His father or brother might have a dream about Boromir."

"_So?"_

"They fight find out that we abandoned him."

"_So?"_

"I'd prefer not to start out my kingship with getting assassinated."

"So you get them both on trumped-up treason charges and execute them before they can incriminate you. Simple," Gimli said flatly.

Before Aragorn had a chance to effectively consider this suggestion, and thus shorten the story by a good ten chapters at least, Legolas, who had used his companions' conversation as time to come to grips with his previous embarrassment, piped up, "Isn't there a phrase about this? A proverb or something?" He paused, wrinkling his delicate nose. "Something about Kings' hands and the like?'"

"'The hands of a King are the hands of a dealer?'" Aragorn put in. "That's what Elladan and Elrohir used to say whenever they wanted to play blackjack…"

There was some rustling from down on the ground as Boromir stirred fitfully. Blearily, he opened one eye. "'The hands of a King are the hands of a _healer_, you arse!" he groaned before passing out yet again.

This was immediately followed by the second lengthy pause in five minutes.

"So all that time I was dealing cards for _nothing!"_ cried Aragorn indignantly.

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When one attempts an Emergency Surgical Procedure, there are a few general rules of which to be mindful. They are listed for your viewing convenience.

1. You will need athelas. There are a great many reputable healing herbs in existence, but when carrying out an Emergency Surgical Procedure in the middle of a remote wilderness area, athelas is the _only_ botanical that should be utilized. So forget your parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme—athelas, athelas, athelas.

2. Measure twice, cut once.

3. A Surgical Procedure isn't a Surgical Procedure unless you can slice something open and burn it shut again. Have hot metal nearby, and be prepared to do some cauterizing.

4. Don't remove something if you don't know what it is.

5. Keep an anesthetic on hand. A heavy blunt object will suffice in the lack of something more sophisticated.

6. If your patient doesn't have a religion, encourage him or her to adopt one before you begin the operation. It's better to be safe than sorry.

7. Ascertain beforehand whether you are in possession of any sooper-kewl elfan heeling powerz. They probably won't be very helpful, practically, but they may serve as a minor confidence booster for both healer and patient.

8. Don't attempt an Emergency Surgical Procedure unless you are acquainted with and fully understand the abovementioned Rules. In fact, it's best if you don't attempt an Emergency Surgical Procedure at all, if there's any other conceivable option, such as euthanasia or voluntary suicide.

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It didn't take long for Aragorn to violate Rule #2.

"Is he supposed to be bleeding like that?" asked Gimli tentatively, peering over the shoulder of Aragorn, who was busily bloodying Boromir's cloak and spare tunics in an attempt to staunch the warm liquid flow pouring from his chest.

"Are you questioning my expertise as a healer?" Aragorn snapped irritably.

"Er… no, never," replied the Dwarf, watching as Aragorn ground a tangled clump of dried athelas in his fist and sprinkled it haphazardly into the wound. "I was just wondering whether that incision was absolutely necessary…"

"Of _course_ it was necessary," said the would-be King tersely. "Bleeding patients is a well-known medical practice. You have to get all the bad blood out of the system."

Gimli privately thought that Boromir had lost quite enough blood from his preexisting wounds before Aragorn had sliced him open, but chose to say nothing—partially because Aragorn's temper ought not to be tested at this sort of moment, and also because he didn't want to inadvertently offer any advice that might promote Boromir's survival.

Boromir was, at present, propped against the splayed roots of a large oak, having finally been dragged out of the water so that pneumonia needn't be added to his growing list of medical problems. Aragorn had begun the procedure by stripping Boromir of his mail and tunic.

There had been, at that moment, a sound that resembled that of ten thousand fangirls swooning, but Legolas, who had pranced down the River to preen as far away from the operation as possible, had just rotated his left big toe a thirteenth of an inch counterclockwise, so the cause remained ambiguous.

Aragorn had then announced, dramatically, that he was making the Incision. Gimli had asked, "What Incision?" To which Aragorn had replied, "_This_ Incision," and made one. Boromir had then resigned himself to the diverting task of bleeding to death.

The Ranger was now dusting Boromir arbitrarily with crushed athelas leaves and remarking that he might open his own practice once he was settled at Minas Tirith. Gimli made a mental note to invent a list of excuses to present for whenever Aragorn happened to invite him for a visit to Gondor.

Aragorn was searching his fanny pack for more Kingsfoil and Gimli was debating whether he could throw his axe and hit the Elf at this range when Boromir coughed and stirred.

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He felt strangely lightheaded. Kaleidoscopic colors flashed across his vision, and the beginnings of a powerful headache beat a steady rhythm within his cranium. He opened his eyes.

Aragorn was squatting in front of him. Blood spattered his arms almost to the elbows.

"You're bleeding. How'd you get injured?" he asked woozily.

Aragorn stared at him with his mouth agape.

Very, very slowly, Boromir inclined his head, and very, very slowly, it registered that there was a pound of mincemeat where his chest was supposed to be.

It then became clear that he was, once again, in a great deal of physical Pain.

"Ouch."

Boromir of Gondor was out cold for the fourth time that day.

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"Is he dead?" inquired Gimli, trying not to sound too optimistic.

"No," sighed Aragorn. Then, "Let me try something different."

"Oh, Eru."

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It was strange, this netherworld, a sinuous land of swirling blacks and grays. His breath rose like mist before his eyes, and the swirling current of invisible waters tugged at his boots. A shimmering shadow hung in the distance, behind which the outlines of flitting shapes could just be discerned.

"What a dump," Aragorn said aloud.

He hoped that whatever lay on the other side of the shadow was more interesting than this, because if this was it—hell, what a waste! To spend one's whole life working like a dog, only to end up _here!_

He sloshed moodily through the dingy river, calling as he went.

"BoroMIIIR! BoroMIIIIR! BoroMIIIR! BoroMIR, you ass, get over here!"

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Boromir could hear someone calling his name.

Peering over the crest of an iron-gray hill, he could just make out the shape of his supposed liege-Lord, wandering morosely down in the valley. Well, let him wander. Boromir was in no hurry to return to reality just yet, where there were Orcs and prissy Elves and ornery Dwarves and grimy Rangers and Pain. And he certainly wasn't about to immediately hearken to the call of a man who had nearly sent him over the brink of a waterfall in an unmanned boat and then proceeded to butcher him in a woeful attempt at surgery. He would respond in his own good time, if he saw fit to respond at all.

"Boromir," said a second, softer voice, much closer this time. Boromir whirled around and saw…

"Mother!" He rushed forward to embrace her.

"No," said Finduilas, holding out a hand to halt him. "You must not touch me. It would draw you over to the other side of the vale, to death."

"But if you're here," said Boromir slowly, scratching the crown of his head, "aren't _I_ dead? Haven't you come to take me to the afterlife or something?"

"Not yet," replied the lady of Dol Amroth, smiling. "I am an emissary, sent to guide you back to life. Your time has not yet come, Boro-mir. There is one here who will call you to the Light."

"I suppose you mean that lout, Aragorn? I'm not going _anywhere_ with him."

"You'll do as you're told, Boromir of Gondor!" snapped Finduilas in a tone that reminded Boromir, quite forcefully, that she was still his mother, whatever gap of years had closed between them. "You have a great deal left to live for, you ungrateful whelp!"

"So did you," said Boromir coolly.

"Don't you take that tone with me, young man!"

"You left me and Fari alone because you didn't get enough bloody _beach vacations!"_

"You seem prepared enough to abandon Faramir yourself," countered Finduilas, expertly skirting around the accusation.

"Faramir's a big boy now; he can take care of himself."

"Boromir, your father is mad," observed his mother suddenly.

"Ooh! News flash!"

"And if you fail to come home, O Son of Mine, who do you suppose will bear the brunt of your mad father's rage and grief?"

"I…" Boromir paused, thinking. Then, he said, "We're talking about Faramir again, aren't we?"

Finduilas sighed resignedly and rolled her eyes slightly. "I have such a clever son."

Before Boromir could reply, Aragorn appeared at the summit of the hill, looking around bemusedly and shouting at the top of his lungs.

"BoroMIIIR! Where the **(censored)**are you?"

Finduilas froze, staring at Aragorn as if unsure if he were real. Then, her face lit up in a spasm of ecstasy. "_Gil!"_ she shrieked shrilly.

He turned and started. "Fin?" he said disbelievingly. "I… weren't you… aren't you…"

"Dead, yes," she said, beaming at him. "You look _great."_

"It's the bloodline. We age well," smirked Aragorn.

Boromir looked back and forth between the pair of them, nonplussed.

"You _know_ each other?"

"Thorongil was in the service of Ecthelion when I first came to live at Minas Tirith," said Finduilas, twirling a dark strand of hair around her fingers shyly and giggling at him.

"They call me Aragorn now, Fin."

"Aragorn? I like that. How many names do you have now?"

"More than I can count."

"Do you remember what I used to call you?"

"You know I do."

"Can we leave now? Please?" interrupted Boromir queasily.

Finduilas sniffed. "You are right. It is time. Go with Aragorn now, and may your days be long and prosperous."

"But…"

"Nice to see you again, Gil. Farewell, my son. Don't screw up again."

"Hurry up," muttered Aragorn, seizing Boromir's elbow and steering him through the mist. Boromir turned, craning his neck for one last glimpse of his mother. His last sight was one of her blowing kisses—though at whom, he wasn't quite sure.

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**A/N:** Next chapter—something actually _happens!_ Oh _boy!_


	3. Necromancy and Negotations

**Disclaimers**—

Eggos: Don't own the characters. I'm only borrowing them.

Boromir (edges onto scene): Psst! Don't listen to her! We're being unlawfully imprisoned!

Faramir: Call the Tower Guard! Or the Swan Knights! Or the police! Or the PPC! Or PETA! Or _someone!_

Eggos: Er… ignore them, they're still recovering from exposure to sibcest fanfic...

**A/N:** In excuse for the two-week delay, I can only offer this quote by Douglas Adams: "I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by."

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"Hey, Dwarfish personage!"

Gimli started awake with a snort, immediately jumping to his feet (not that it made a great deal of difference either way) and clutching his axe aggressively. Peering around with glinting dark eyes, his gaze lighted on Legolas, who was standing with his hands on his hips and a pout printed on his delicate features. Gimli's unruly brows lowered as he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Did you just call me a 'Dwarfish personage'?"

"Yes. It seemed more politically correct."

"As compared to _what_?" grunted Gimli, settling his stout bulk onto the rock where he had previously been dozing.

"'Diminutive hairy hog-man.'"

"Did you wake me up for a reason, or did you just want to borrow my axe to use as a mirror?" snapped the Dwarf irritably.

Legolas made a noise somewhere between a "tsk" and a sigh that is most commonly found on the lips of irate teenaged girls who have just been told that their curfew has been truncated. "I _wanted_ to ask if you knew what was the matter with Estel."

"Estel?" repeated Gimli, bewildered.

Legolas's response came in the form of a sound somewhere in the vicinity of a sigh, a growl, and a guttural exhale usually employed by irate mothers who are in the process of informing their teenaged daughter that, no, the new curfew is _not_ up for negotiation. "_Aragorn_." He gestured gracefully in the direction of the Dúnadan, who was crouched in a trancelike state at Boromir's side, eyes glassy and unseeing.

"Aulë's hammer, how many names does that man _have?"_ said Gimli incredulously.

"I don't _know_, I've never bothered to _count_," the Elf replied tetchily.

"He must have fallen asleep. Some healer, eh?" Gimli rose to his feet once more and plodded over to Aragorn's side. "I never knew that he slept with his eyes open. Good thing, too—Gandalf was bad enough. You could never tell whether he was looking at you or not… Rise and shine!" This last comment was directed toward the Ranger, coupled with a sharp poke in the shoulder. When this failed to elicit any result, he aimed a kick at Aragorn's flank with a tubby booted foot.

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"Urgh!" groaned Aragorn abruptly, clutching at his side. "_Dammit…"_

"What now?" Boromir wanted to know.

Aragorn winced as he straightened. "I think someone just kicked me."

"Perhaps our corporeal selves are under ambush?" suggested Boromir, torn between remote anxiety for his already much-damaged body and smug satisfaction at his incorporation of the word "corporeal" into casual conversation.

"Perhaps. If not… I am going to _kill_ those two!"

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"He's not waking up."

"Maybe you didn't kick him hard enough."

"Hmph!" Gimli booted Aragorn again, this time with the force of his entire, not insubstantial weight.

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"_Aaaargh!"_ Aragorn staggered, half-vanishing into a cloud of dense otherworldly fog.

"What _now?"_ inquired Boromir crossly when his unwelcome companion stumbled back into view.

"I think we _must_ be under attack… I've been kicked again!" he gasped.

"Please understand if I'm having difficulty sympathizing—I happen to be mortally wounded in three places, if you haven't forgotten already."

"Thanks for the support. Hurry up, we're almost out," grumbled Aragorn.

"I wasn't the one lagging behind!"

"You're the reason we're here in the first place, lunkhead!"

"What? Because I got myself shot into a pincushion while single-handedly defending two Halflings from two _hundred_ Uruk-Hai because my supposed _comrades_ weren't quick enough in moseying on over to _aid_ me?"

"… Shut up!"

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"Your kicking appears to be ineffectual."

Gimli scowled. "Well, why don't _you_ try, then?"

"Maybe I _will_," Legolas retorted, and took aim.

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Aragorn paused bemusedly. "That was odd…"

Boromir rolled his eyes and snorted. "I take it you've been kicked again?"

"No… but I just had the most peculiar sensation… almost as if a butterfly had just collided with my right knee…"

"Bloody _hell_, I'm hemorrhaging to death, man! Buy yourself a spine!" snarled the Captain-General of Gondor disgustedly. "Which door do we want, anyway?" he added, peering around at the stunning array of portals that loomed out of the mist.

"Third one on the left," replied Aragorn resentfully, scratching his knee.

"Are you sure…?" asked Boromir, pausing to stare curiously at a crumbling stone arch from which hung a gently swaying dark veil.

"Stop mixing fandoms! It's this one!" barked Aragorn, steering Boromir toward the appropriate door.

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"I think I've broken my toe…" moaned Legolas pitifully, cradling his soft-booted foot gently in his lap.

"Pansy," affirmed Gimli derisively.

"He has a very hard kneecap!" cried the Elf defensively.

No sooner had he spoken then there was a simultaneous intake of breath, similar to that of a person emerging into daylight after a long period underwater, from behind them. Wheeling around with his axe held out protectively once more, Gimli saw that both Aragorn and (to his dismay) Boromir were conscious once more, as abruptly as if a switch had been turned on. Aragorn rose to his feet somewhat groggily, but Boromir remained slumped against the tree. "I don't see any enemies in this vicinity," he remarked through gritted teeth.

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "It was _you_!" he growled.

"What d'you mean?" Gimli chuckled apprehensively. Aragorn's expression had taken something of a feral turn and his hand was straying toward his sword hilt, but, fortunately for the Dwarf, Boromir chose that moment to rise to his feet, grunt, and fall over again, effectively distracting the heir of Isildur from his impending vengeance. Gimli used the opportunity to slink away from the danger unseen.

"**(Censored)**!" muttered Boromir, righting himself into a kneeling position. "I feel like I've been mauled by a Warg…!"

Aragorn used the dismantled remains of Boromir's reddened undershirts to make slapdash bandages for Boromir's various wounds, as well as a sling for his left arm, in which he claimed there was no sensation whatsoever.

"Well, then, you're all set!" he said cheerily to his glum patient.

"Er… do I get to put my tunic back on, or what?"

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand fangirls groaning in dismay. However, Legolas was still bemoaning his inability to rotate his left big toe even a thirteenth of an inch counterclockwise, so the cause remained ambiguous.

The end result was that Aragorn had to remove Boromir's sling, throw his tunic over his head, work his arms through the sleeves (a complicated process, as one of Boromir's arms was completely limp, and the other wracked violently when touched), and then put the sling back on again. Boromir braced himself against the tree and rose shakily.

As Aragorn cleaned up shop, his eyes fell on the blood-clotted dagger he had used it in the operation. He picked it up thoughtfully; then, seeing his tinderbox lying a few feet away, he snatched it up as well. A Notion was forming in his mind. "Boromir, are you sure you don't need anything cauterized? I've never cauterized anything before and I was thinking I might want…"

"Get away from me, you quack!" Boromir leapt back, panting.

Meanwhile, the Dwarf was having a Revelation.

"_Crikey!"_ he cried, sounding very much the way Steve Irwin might, if Steve Irwin were a red-nosed hairy midget with a thick Scottish accent. "We've forgotten about the two hairy-footed Plot Points!"

The other three froze abruptly. Even Legolas ceased the wailing lament for his foot.

"Sweet Eru, you're right!" gasped Aragorn.

"Merry and Pippin! They were captured by Uruks! What are we going to do? This saga can't get anywhere without our Diminutive Instruments of Comic Relief™!" cried Legolas agitatedly.

"Haven't I rather taken up that office?" remarked Gimli.

"Yes, but if we don't rescue Pippin," panted Boromir, "who's going to save Faramir when Father tries to burn him alive!"

There was a long pause.

"Can we make a mandatory rule not to have any more random plot inconsistencies and Flashes-of-Foresight, here? They weird me out," remarked Aragorn. Boromir glared at him. Aragorn glared back. "At all events… we must not leave Merry and Pippin to torment and death. What are we going to do?"

"Go after them, naturally," said Boromir.

"Yes, but you're not strong enough to run. And we can't just leave you here," explained Aragorn (_as much as we might like_, he thought privately). "One of us will have to stay with you until you recover." He sighed. "I guess it'll have to be me."

"No, it can't be; we'll need you for tracking. And it can't be me, because you'll need my sooper kewl elfan eysite," countered Legolas.

Everyone turned to stare pointedly at Gimli.

"_I'm _not staying with the hair-brained human!" protested the Dwarf. Boromir made a strangled noise of indignation, and Aragorn shook his head.

"Well, there's nobody _else_," he argued. "And every moment we waste is another moment of Merry and Pippin's time."

"I refuse to stay here and play nursemaid to that lummox," stated Gimli adamantly.

"Well, none of us can leave until this gets sorted out."

"Then we are at an impasse."

"I suppose we are."

"Wait a minute," said Legolas suddenly. "Gimli, would you agree to stay here if we agree to take Boromir with us?"

"_What?"_

"I _said:_ if Boromir comes with us, would you have any objection to staying here?"

"I wouldn't have to do any Man-sitting?"

"No Man-sitting."

"Well…" Gimli thought it slowly, lips pursed. "I suppose that's doable…"

"Promise!"

"What?"

"Promise," said the Elf exasperatedly, "that you will stay here."

"Fine, but only if you promise to take the Man with you."

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

Gimli spat on his nut-brown palm and extended his hand, while Legolas proffered his little finger to the Dwarf. There were a few seconds of cultural confusion.

"Do you really expect me to shake hands with you after you've snorted saliva all over it?" queried Legolas with revulsion, wrinkling his pointed nose.

"Well, what's _that_ supposed to mean?" objected Gimli, nodding toward Legolas's hand gesture.

"Haven't you ever heard of a pinky promise?" cried Legolas, scandalized.

"Sounds liked a damned wussy practice to me," muttered Gimli, but in the end he conceded to this method of pact-sealing, since Legolas flatly refused to shake hands with him. He then settled down comfortably against the base of the tree, which was still stained becomingly with Boromir's blood.

"Let's go hunt Orc!" cried Legolas, sashaying off into the forest with his dove-gray cloak billowing out behind him. Aragorn and Boromir exchanged glances.

"What just happened?" asked Boromir.

"I have no idea," replied Aragorn.

"Hurry _up_, guys!" whined Legolas, stamping his foot petulantly.

Aragorn shrugged. "Come on, then," he said, grabbing Boromir by his unbandaged arm and hauling him off behind him.

"But I'm mortally wounded!" griped Boromir as he staggered along painfully in order to keep pace with his future King.

"Well, isn't that news to us all?" snarled Aragorn. "Get over it already!"

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And so it was that Boromir, who, in the course of a single afternoon, had died twice, had passed out four times, had been wounded in three places, had been butchered by a quack doctor, had been nearly sent over the brink of the Rauros, and had been forced to discover several traumatizing things concerning his dead mother and his sadistic quasi-healer King, ended up running full-tilt across the plains of Rohan in search of two kidnapped Hobbits and wishing he'd just given the God-damned quest to Faramir after all.

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**A/N:** Eh. Right, so that was completely off-the-wall. Sorry. I promise to do better next time ;)

I was thinking Faramir wasn't going to show up for a long while yet, but I believe I've just thought of a way to drag him in earlier on. Stay tuned, Faramir fans!

Faramir Fans: _Yessss!_

Faramir: **(censored)**!


	4. How Many Names is That, Now?

**Disclaimers:** If I owned LotR… trust me, you'd know it.

**A/N**—

Eggos: Right, now I don't know which of my readers called PETA on me…

Boromir (mouthing): _Thank you! We love you! Hugs and kisses for all!_

Eggos: … but they came by this morning, surrounded the house, trampled the petunias, TP'd the car, and ended up sequestering my Labrador. Thanks a _lot_.

Boromir (rounding on Faramir): They took the _dog?_ Faramir, I though you said these "PETA" people would come and rescue _us!_

Faramir: I had no idea it was an animal rights group! _I_ thought it stood for **P**rohibiting the **E**vil **T**endencies of **A**uthors!

Boromir: And they call _you_ the smart one!

Eggos: Oh, stop being such a pair of wusses. I could have done a lot worse by the two of you! I mean, Boromir! You're alive!

Boromir: … maimed …

Eggos: … but _alive!_ And Faramir… come on, you're not even in the fic yet! (pause) Though that's shortly to be remedied…

Faramir: **(Censored)**!

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It had been two days since the morning when Faramir, with the keen perception of his Ranger senses, had half-fancied that he had heard the resounding cry of a horn echoing in the distance. And not just any horn—only one instrument could have produced a note of such volume and timbre, and that particular instrument was of certain interest to Faramir, mainly on account of the person who bore it.

It had been two days, and Faramir's nights had been uneasy. On the first day, the eve after he had first heard the horn, he had dreamt of Boromir. A ghastly and sinisterly life-like dream, during which he watched his brother fall—no new experience for Faramir's troubled mind, which was wont to manifest his most innate fears in the form of nightmares. But this time it had felt different, more vision than nightmare, and the telltale sound of the winding horn, which was only blown at great need, only served to further heighten this conviction. In his dream, there had been Orcs, many Orcs, and arrows, and then water, heavy and dark, stifling, smothering—a drowning. He had almost supposed that he had experienced another historical vision, and that he had dreamt of Isildur. But it most certainly been Boromir that he had seen.

On the second night, he dreamt of Boromir again, but not of his death. He was not sure exactly what the second vision entailed, but it was much more vague than the first, phantasmagoric flashes of light and feeling. Grey mist and interlacing branches—he almost thought that he had seen his mother at some point—and then fiery pain, and frenzied running. Running across the plains of Rohan.

It was no good, Faramir decided. There was no way to be certain of whether his dreams were visions, or whether they were simply dreams. At all events, he was in no mood to play at ducks and drakes with Boromir's safety, especially in the event that the Valar had seen fit to send him a warning, and decided, reluctantly, grudgingly, that he would have to write to his father.

He mused at great length as to how best to word his letter to Denethor, how best to convey his visions such that they came across as serious enough to compel the Steward to action, but not as so dire that the news would upset the balance of his father's ever-more-precarious mental state and drive him to such acts of arson as he had indulged in immediately following his mother's death.

Eventually, he worded a communication to his satisfaction, and sent it off with a courier.

"This is to be delivered directly into the Steward's hands, and no other," were his implicit instructions. "If he is not at liberty to accept the delivery, then it is not to be delivered at all."

Faramir sank into his chair, wearied. Wearied with worrying about Boromir and Denethor and Mordor and Ithilien and Haradrim. All he wanted was a pack of hounds and a beach house in Dol Amroth. That was all. Was it really so much to ask?

… yes, it was. Faramir was not sure whether there was any age during which Men were, or would be, afforded bliss, but it was obviously not the third one.

The courier was back in twenty minutes.

"Sweet Eru, how did you travel so speedily?" came Faramir's astonished inquiry.

There was a noise not unlike ten thousand Harry Potter fans crying, _"He Apparated! He Apparated!"_ and ten thousand Lord of the Rings fans crying back, _"GET YOUR OWN BLOODY FANFIC ALREADY!"_

"I traveled so speedily," explained the courier, "because, in this world, time and distance have no congenital meaning."

"Why, because it's a parody?"

"No, because the author can't be bothered to look at that blasted map another time."

"Ah."

Faramir saw that the courier bore a response, and appropriated it.

_Do us all a favor and take a long walk off a short pier, you whiny bastard. And if your nightmares are bothering you, buy yourself a damned nightlight._

_Love and kisses,_

_Daddy_

Well, that was that, then. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, had gone mad. He obviously still loved and cherished Faramir to the same extent that any father might. He was simply mad. That was all. Really.

But there was still the matter of Boromir being dead, or, at best, running mortally wounded across the plains of Rohan, though Faramir did not think that the latter was quite as likely. Action needed to be taken, but Denethor quite obviously would not be the agent.

Faramir knew that this called for something quick, spontaneous, rash, and utterly OOC.

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"A red sun rises," intoned Legolas, dramatically silhouetted against the pink-tinged sky. "Blood has been spilled this night."

"Yes, and I know whose," wheezed Boromir, staggering forward and wincing as his wounds persisted in their gaping state.

Legolas glared. "I wasn't talking about _you_, if that's what you meant."

"I'd just like to know how exactly you can determine whether blood has been spilt by the color of sun," sneered Boromir, who found that superfluous near-death experiences afforded him new levels of cynicism. "Is it an art that one can learn? Because I imagine that it might be useful in the military, you know, when it comes to planning strategies and the like…"

"The statement was _metaphorical_," scoffed the Elf, flipping his golden hair.

"Legolas makes ambiguous metaphorical statements under pressure," put in Aragorn in what he evidently took to be an undertone. "It's best not to question them."

"Well, I'm glad that he has breath to _spare_," growled Boromir.

Legolas's large blue eyes filled with tears. "You don't _understand!"_ he cried out in a wail that nonetheless failed to mar his countenance—a feat indeed. "I can't _help_ it! Making ambiguous statements is what I _do!_ I… I had a disturbed childhood!"

Boromir's eyes practically popped with incredulity. "You're talking to _me_ about disturbed childhoods? My father beats my brother and talks to crystal balls and lights things on fire for _kicks!"_

"My father doesn't even know I'm _alive!_ And I'm an arachnophobic! Do you have _any_ idea what it's like living in _Mirkwood_ with _arachnophobia?"_

"Oh, stop sniveling, the pair of you! I'm a bloody _orphan!"_

"… with a loving father figure…!"

"… who won't let me marry his daughter unless I become royalty first!"

"You want to marry your foster father's daughter?" exclaimed Boromir with faint disgust. "That's practically incest!"

"Well, look who's _talking_!"

"What—!"

"You—!"

"I—!"

"It—!"

"That's—!"

"Stop—!"

"Never—!"

"We—!"

"You—!"

"Argh—!"

"Duck—!"

The three bickering companions jumped behind a conveniently located rock as a horde of sweaty Rohirric horses with a horde of sweaty Rohirrim on their glistening backs came stampeding past.

The odors of blood and perspiration and manure all combined in a delectably pungent whiff of distinctly Rohirric scent that sent Legolas's delicate stomach reeling. Aragorn, who was used to foul odors, and indeed quite liked them, such that personal hygiene was rendered superfluous, had no such qualms, and inhaled deeply before filling his lungs with the heady air and bellowing, "_Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?"_

In a space of twenty seconds, they were enclosed in a ring of fifty angry horselords, all of whom were brandishing singularly lethal-looking spears in their direction.

"Smart move, Aragorn," muttered Boromir, eyeing the nearest spearhead with a kind of detached anxiety. Sharp objects now bore a new kind of menace in his eyes.

"And what business does an Elf, a Man, and… another Man… have in the Riddermark?" snarled a burly and particularly cross Rider with a plume of false hair protruding from his helmet.

"We are tracking a company of Uruk-Hai westward across the plains; they have taken two of our friends captive," said Aragorn.

"_Hah!_" exclaimed the Rider with cross derision. "_Hah!_ That's what they _all_ say! 'Oh, we're just hunting Orcs!' 'Oh, we're just looking for some friends!' You know, that's what that ragtag bunch of hillfolk told me when they came to border crossing _yesterday_, and they ended up ransacking a bloody village! I need some ID from the three of you!"

"ID?" asked Legolas, confused.

"I… hold on, wait a minute…" Boromir rummaged through his pockets for a moment and then sighed. "Oh, it's no use… I've gone and left my 'Steward's Favorite Son' card in Rivendell."

Aragorn wordlessly proffered a small plastic card, and the cross Rider took it.

His eyes widened. "Isildur's Heir?" he exclaimed with cross incredulity. "These indeed are strange days. Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass."

"I'm flattered," said Aragorn stiffly. "But I really can't stay and chat… see, we've been tracking these Orcs from Tol Brandir for four days now…"

"On foot?"

"Yes."

"Hardy is the race of Elendil! Wingfoot I name you!"

"Oh _Eru_, not another one!" groaned Boromir. "What number is that? Twelve?"

The cross Rider glared at Boromir, and Boromir glared back. "At all events," the horselord continued crossly, "the Uruks are no more. We slew them in an ambush and burned the carcasses—see?" He pointed to a cloud of billowing smoke on the horizon.

"**(Censored)**!" cried Aragorn. "We ran all that way for _nothing!"_

"Would you like direction to the nearest pub?" offered the Rider with cross neighborliness.

"No thanks, we'd best be moseying on over to that bonfire and pretend to be doing something useful. I may take you up on that offer later, though," added Aragorn, and the three took their leave of the Riders, Boromir feeling almost as cross as their leader at the prospect of a pub turned down.

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"Well, that's classy," said Legolas, wrinkling his nose at an Orc head impaled upon a stick.

"Boromir, kindly rummage through that pile and see if Merry and Pippin are hiding underneath," ordered Aragorn idly, seating himself on a rock. Boromir limped over and grudgingly obeyed. The hobbits were not, as it happened, concealed among the carcasses, but, by sheer chance, Boromir lighted upon one of their belts, charred and fragmented among various other indistinguishable articles. He held it aloft soundlessly.

It took Aragorn a few minutes to notice the belt, but when he did, he immediately squinted, said, "I guess it's time for me to lose it, isn't it?" and threw himself onto the ground kicking and screaming. Legolas began praying loudly in Elvish, making Boromir, who was not religious, distinctly uncomfortable, such that he was most relieved when Aragorn abruptly stopped wailing, pawed thoughtfully at the ground, and announced, "Shh, I'm about to pull a Prince Humperdinck!"

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers sighing simultaneously and wondering if the canonically incongruous references to pop culture would ever end.

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**A/N:** Well, this definitely wasn't one of my more amusing chapters, but things are going to pick up from here, I hope… I'd like to thank all my wonderful reviewers, who are most kind in continuing to put up with this fic, which would appear to be getting progressively weirder and weirder… though I've been having fun, dammit!


	5. Tribulations and Trivia

**Disclaimers:** If I owned LotR, Boromir would never have died in the first place. It's also fairly safe to say that Merry and Pippin wouldn't have lived past the first chapter, and that Faramir would have replaced Legolas in the Fellowship. So it should be pretty apparent that I _don't_ own LotR.

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay… I was actually out of town this time, not just procrastinating. Though there was a bit of that, too.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed—glad to see you're enjoying your reading almost as much as I'm enjoying the writing. Sorry, no Faramir in this chapter; he'll be back, I promise.

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Two Men and an Elf stood at the fringe of Fangorn Forest, gaping open-mouthed the vast tangle of interlacing branches and looping vines and snaking green tendrils before them. Or, such was the case with at least two members of the trio; the third was somewhat preoccupied with the three would-be mortal wounds adorning his torso, from which blood was oozing softly like sap might from a pine.

"Fangorn Forest," breathed Aragorn.

"Fangorn Forest," breathed Legolas.

A long moment of lingering and somewhat brittle silence.

Boromir finally glanced up from the pressing task of nervously prodding his bandages, at which point he received some rather frosty glares from his companions. He blinked. _"What?"_

"It's your turn," hissed Legolas irritably.

"My turn for what?"

Legolas stamped his foot petulantly. "Honestly, if you were any more oblivious, you'd be dead."

"That joke was in rather poor taste, I think," grunted Boromir with some resentment.

"Sorry, Bori."

"And don't call me Bori."

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand… wait, make that five readers muttering simultaneously, _"Well it's a little late for _that_, isn't it?"_ Aragorn shivered; he was beginning to find the number of unwarranted disembodied exclamations that had dogged him of late to be somewhat unnerving.

"Er, right… what was it you wanted, anyway?" said Boromir to Legolas, after the appropriate interval of eerie silence had passed away.

"Just say 'Fangorn Forest' in appropriately reverent and fearful tones," instructed the Elf.

Boromir lifted an eyebrow. "'Fangorn Forest'?"

"Good enough," murmured Legolas, and they proceeded to enter the Forest.

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Boromir stooped to examine the foliage of a nearby shrub. "Orc blood," he announced, gesturing toward a fetid stain on one of the leaves and wincing as he straightened.

"How can you tell?" asked Aragorn.

"Er… because it's black?"

"Don't you have to taste it or something?"

Boromir's left eyebrow was seeing some exercise today. "Are you mad?"

The Dúnadan rolled his eyes. "Of course, you wouldn't understand; common soldiers aren't as willing to get nitty and gritty in the line of duty as we Rangers," he chided loftily.

Boromir glanced pointedly from Aragorn, to his own blood-stained tunic, and then back again. "Was that," he began, slowly and deliberately, "a joke?"

The heir of Elendil noticed that Boromir was looking a mite feral. "Yes, of course it was," came the hurried reply.

"Then that's the second time that someone's made a joke about my condition in the last ten minutes! When will you lot get around to acquiring some sensitivity!" He rounded on Aragorn heatedly. "And my brother's a Ranger, I'll have you know!"

"Yes," affirmed Aragorn in what he hoped to be a placating tone, while inwardly he thought, _Of Ithilien, that is. Pretentious little bastards; I hear they even take baths over there. _His thoughts were interrupted by a strange rumbling and groaning that vibrated from the serpentine roots to the quivering boughs of the trees above. Both Men paused, looking around warily.

Only Legolas seemed unphased. "This Forest is Old," he declared. "Very Old. Full of Memory. And Anger."

"What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?" demanded Boromir.

Legolas's face suddenly screwed up like an anguished prune. "I don't know!" the Elf wailed. "I make ambiguous statements under pressure! I thought that this was already established!"

"Well, _don't!_ It's confusing for the rest of us!"

"_You_ all just don't _appreciate_ me the way you should!"

"If you mean that I don't appreciate vague visionary pessimistic assignations, then you're absolutely _right!"_

"You're just an insensitive prat, is what!"

"Why are we shouting?" put in Aragorn.

"Because we're _upset!"_

"Why are we _upset?"_

"I don't remember!"

"Are you upset because you can't remember?"

"_No!_ I'm upset about what I'm _not_ remembering!"

"What aren't you remembering?"

"That's just it!"

"Wait…! Does it have anything to do with the fact that Boromir's bleeding to death?" offered Legolas, nodding at the injured Man.

"Yes… perhaps that's it…" said Aragorn slowly, though something seemed anomalous about this statement—the words "upset" and "Boromir's bleeding to death" seemed to jar strangely in his mind.

"But I've been bleeding to death for nearly three days now!" countered Boromir. "There must be something else…" The three warriors paused for a moment, deep in thought.

"Ah-_ha!"_ interjected Boromir abruptly. "I know why we're arguing! You insulted my brother!"

"I did not!"

"Yes, you did; you called him a pretentious bastard!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did!"

"At least I never said it _out loud!"_

"Yes, you… wait a minute, you didn't?"

"_No!"_

"Oh." Boromir paused, then sighed. "Damn, being a Húrin is altogether too uncanny a profession." Another pause, and then Boromir exploded, "Then you insulted my brother_ in your thoughts?"_

Aragorn leapt back as though scalded, hoping that the panic in his eyes would overshadow any potential traces of guilt. "I'm—!"

"Because Faramir is _not_ a preten—!"

"Stop, stop, I've got it!" Legolas cut in triumphantly. "We're all upset because Saruman is walking in our direction as we speak!"

The two bickering Gondorians halted their debate to consider this proposition. Aragorn stroked his stubble thoughtfully. "You know, that really would do it, wouldn't it?"

"Too true, too true… I suppose that must be the case…" Boromir asserted dimly; then, the implications of this statement suddenly jumped out of nowhere and throttled him. "Wait a minute, did you just say that _Saruman _is walking toward us _as we speak?"_

Before the alarm had fully registered on the faces of his two comrades, Boromir found himself dazzled by a blinding surge of fluorescent white light. Blinking bloodshot eyes furiously, he strained his visage against the light, while a conveniently digitalized voice rambled on about Hobbits and unexpected visitors until Aragorn cried out, "Who _are_ you?"

It was still impossible to perceive the features of the personage with the conveniently digitalized voice through the blinding surge of fluorescent white light, but Boromir suspected that he (or she, or it) had just rolled his (or her, or its) eyes. "Who am I? What, do you want a trivia question?"

"Yes, please," prattled Legolas. The two Men groaned.

A low exhale. "Well, if you insist. I am one of the following persons: A. Gandalf the White; B. Saruman; C. Gandalf the White; D. Merlin; E. Gandalf the White; F. Albus Dumbledore; G. Gandalf the White; H. Obi-Wan Kenobi; I. Gandalf the White; J. Gandalf the White; K. Gandalf the White. Right, the clock's ticking."

There was a noise not unlike the combined squeals of ten thousand Harry Potter fans, ten thousand Star Wars fans, and six Arthurian-mythology fans, in addition to a well-placed smattering of "Jeopardy" music.

Presently, Aragorn scoffed, "Of course, we _know_ you're Saruman!"

"Oh, for _pity's_ sake!" cried the voice, which suddenly ceased to be conveniently digitalized, as the blinding surge of fluorescent white light subsided to reveal the scowling features of…

"_Gandalf!"_ cried all three travelers in perfect sync.

Gandalf rolled his eyes quite plainly this time. "Honestly, if you were any more oblivious, you'd be dead."

"I wish that people would stop making that bloody joke!" exclaimed Boromir.

Gandalf cast a cool and unsympathetic blue-eyed gaze in his direction. "Trust me, kid, you'll get used to it after a while."

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"What exactly _is_ this concoction, Mithrandir?" asked Boromir dubiously, holding the bottle Gandalf had conferred to him at arm's length, as though he expected it to implode at any given moment.

"Ent-draught," replied the Maia. "Taken from the waters of Fangorn itself. It won't heal your wounds, but it will give you strength enough for the time being."

Boromir sighed and slipped the bottle into his pack. "I'm beginning to think it might have been easier if I'd just died back at Parth Galen."

Gandalf surveyed him sternly. "Do not doubt the will of the Valar, Boromir of Gondor! If they have seen fit to send you back to Arda, even as they have sent me, then there is some part for you to play yet in shaping the fate of Middle-earth."

"Or maybe there was a kettle boiling over in the kitchen at Valinor and they were too distracted to make sure I died properly," muttered Boromir.

"Well, yes, that happens too," conceded Gandalf with a shrug, and commenced to turn to the left, facing the swaying grasses and billowing wind, and whistle as loudly as possible.

"What's he doing?" asked Aragorn.

"Maybe he's trying to summon aid," suggested Legolas.

"Why would we need to summon aid?" said Aragorn.

"Well, we could have used the Horn of Gondor, if that was the case," put in Boromir.

"No thanks; that thing sounds like a truck horn."

"What's a truck?"

"Never mind."

"Look, there's a white cow coming over the crest of the hill!" exclaimed Legolas.

"That's not a cow, you imbecile, that's a horse!" sneered Boromir; then, looking at Legolas suspiciously, "And you thought that Gandalf was Saruman, back in the Forest, didn't you?"

"So did both of _you!"_

"Yes, but you're the one with the sooper-kewl elfan eysite."

Legolas turned a striking variation of the color pink, somewhere between magenta and a light fuchsia. "I lost my contact lenses while we were running in Rohan."

"Contact lenses?"

"Yes, my contacts, and I was going to look for them, but then those horrid men came stampeding by and I…"

"What are contacts?"

"Oh! Er, nothing."

Boromir put the hand that was not in a sling on his hip and glared around skeptically. "Is there something going on here that you lot aren't telling me?"

"Shadowfax," said Gandalf loudly, cutting off the conversation. "Lord of all… hang on a moment, where are _your_ horses?"

Aragorn was perplexed. "Our horses?"

"Yes. Your horses."

"Er… _what_ horses?"

"_Your _horses!"

"Oh. Those." Aragorn paused. "We haven't got any horses."

"Yes, you do! The ones Éomer gave you!"

"Who's Éomer?" asked Legolas.

"He didn't give us any horses," said Boromir.

Gandalf sat down heavily. "This grows stranger by the minute. How will we get to Edoras with only one horse?"

"Well, I have good news," Aragorn piped up.

"What?" inquired the other three.

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand people praying vehemently that there was no impending Geico joke to follow up this statement.

"In this world, time and distance have no congenital meaning," explained Aragorn.

"What, so we could conceivably walk to Edoras?"

"If we wanted to, yes."

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**A/N:** The more you review, the more I'll be compelled to write, and the more Faramir we can squeeze in! See, it's a win-win situation for everybody. Well, except Faramir, that is ;).


	6. Matters of Homeland Security

**Disclaimers:** I do not own LotR. It belongs to the lamentably but very firmly dead J.R.R. Tolkien. Suffice to say, I am not he.

**A/N:** Can you feel your keyboard radiating an aura of gratitude? That's me, sending waves of love and goodwill through cyberspace to all my reviewers. Hurrah.

And, after a month's respite, we come at last to chapter six!

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In these, the last days of the Third Age, the city of Edoras was a city of Fear.

This is quite an understandable position for a city to hold in time of trouble. Under the lordship of an increasingly incompetent King, watching as surrounding villages and homesteads were subjected to violent and unexpected attacks, hearing of strange and unseen powers rising in the East and vast armies dispatched from Isengard… Rohan was not the first and most certainly not the last kingdom to succumb to hysteria under such conditions.

Meanwhile, the peacekeeping officials of Edoras did all they could to ensure the security of city.

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"Look," said Aragorn, pointing at the ground excitedly. "It's a Torn Rohirric Standard of Deepest and Most Potent Symbolism™!"

"I've had just about enough symbolism and ambiguity for one day, thanks," stated Boromir flatly, though it was to Legolas that his glare was chiefly directed. The Elf looked away pointedly, and Boromir, rolling his eyes, removed the stopper squelchily from his flask of Ent-draught, and, for what may have been the sixty-fourth time in the last ten minutes, took a swig. Electricity and vigor seemed to crackle and surge from the tips of his toes to the ends of his hair, and he vibrated a bit. Aragorn gave him an odd look, at which Boromir quickly hid the flask away, just in case the look happened to be one of covetousness.

Following the lead of Gandalf, who had concealed the blinding surge of fluorescent white light that inevitably clung to his person beneath a gray mantle, the three Walkers abandoned the fluttering banner that still writhed like an injured snake in the grass and trudged through the cobbled streets of mournful and fear-fraught Edoras. As they ascended the stone steps of the Golden Hall, they found their path barred by a stocky red-haired guard, who scowled at them.

"Alright, surrender your weapons, we're doing a search," he said gruffly.

"A search?" repeated Aragorn with all the kingly indignance he could muster. "Whatever for?"

"To make sure you aren't smuggling anything in."

"Such as…?"

"Don't ask questions!" barked the guard. "Surrender your weapons!" He circled them like a large, bad-tempered vulture as the four companions produced numerous lethal artifacts—bows, quivers, swords, knives, and a number of small daggers hidden away in unlikely and unsavory locales—and placed them in the custody of a group of surly sentries. Bereft of all arms, they made to enter the hall a second time, but the guard stopped them yet again. "Ah ­_ha!"_ he cried triumphantly, gesturing toward a glint of silver at Legolas's belt. "What's _that?"_

Legolas held up the object in question between his thumb and forefinger. "A nail file?"

"Hand it over!"

"_What?" _shrieked Legolas, horrified.

"I said, hand it over! You could stab a man's eyes out with a weapon like that!"

"It's not a weapon, it's a nail file! A personal hygiene item!" protested the Elf.

"You see, this is _exactly_ why I don't bother with those sorts of things," whispered Aragorn knowledgably to Boromir. Boromir edged away slowly from the close proximity, as well as the accompanying scent.

"… like a comb, or a hairbrush!" Legolas went on.

"Ah _ha! _Are _you_ carrying a hairbrush?"

Nonplussed, Legolas offered a hesitant, "…Yes?"

"Hand it over!"

"_What?"_

"Hand it over! A brush can be very dangerous when hurled over long distances!" cried the guard, gesturing in an emphatic throwing movement to demonstrate. Boromir sniggered out loud, and the guard rounded on him. "What's _this_, then?" he exclaimed, trying to wrest Boromir's heavy circular shield from his grasp and nearly upsetting Boromir's precarious balance in the process. "A shield, you fool!" grunted Boromir irritably as he shook the man off.

"You could knock a man out with a weapon like that!" the guard panted.

"Look, this is ridiculous!" Boromir exploded. Glancing around, his eyes chanced to light on a large wooden building that stood nearby, and he gesticulated toward it furiously. "There's a convenience store _right there!_ I could walk and buy another shield right now, if I wanted to!"

Legolas and Aragorn turned around slowly and saw that, not only was there a convenience store directly behind them with a large weaponry display in the front window, but that shields were marked half-off today.

The guard, however, remained immobile. "Them's the rules," he stated firmly. "What's that?" he continued, pointing at the cloven horn at Boromir's hip.

"For Eru's sake, it's the Horn of Gondor!" came the exasperated reply.

"… hand it over!"

"You would not part a Lord of Gondor from his Horn?" challenged Boromir

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_THE CODE OF LEGITIMATE HUMOR WRITING, SECTION 12, ARTICLE 7_

_The "Horn of Gondor" joke is a very old one and should not be used under any circumstances, as it has been done many, many times before._

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"Fine, the Horn can stay," said the guard grudgingly, "but the shield has to go." Boromir surrendered it with a sigh, resisting the temptation to knock the sentry over the head with it as he did so.

The guard rubbed both large hands together. "Alright, then! Vambraces off!"

"_What?"_ exclaimed Boromir, Aragorn, and Legolas simultaneously.

"You heard me! Vambraces off! I've seen what they can do!"

There was a long, expectant pause.

"They can leave _welts_, if you were to use them to hit someone!" supplied the guard.

Resignedly, Boromir made to undo the straps of his leather vambraces, when he saw that he wasn't wearing any. Odd.

Wait a minute… where _were_ his vambraces? He'd been wearing them at Parth Galen, hadn't he? What had happened to them? Had he lost them in the Anduin?

"Where…?" He left the question unfinished as he cast his eyes around the vicinity and saw…

"_Aragorn!"_ he cried out accusingly. The Dúnadan jumped at the sudden noise and glared at Boromir sulkily. "What?"

"Those are _my_ vambraces!" he said, gesturing furiously at the articles in question.

"Er, no, they're not."

"Yes, they are, they've got the White Tree on them!"

"No, they haven't," replied Aragorn, folding his arms in what was evidently intended to be an offhand, casual movement in order to conceal the incriminating logo.

"You _stole_ them, didn't you? I can't believe it! I mean, I knew you were an ass, but I thought you were an ass with some _principles_, at least!"

"I thought that you were dead when I took them!" countered Aragorn, reddening.

Boromir seemed to veritably swell up with the ire of it all. "Then you're a _graverobber_, aren't you? What, did you pinch my pockets, too?"

Aragorn muttered something about it only being a few old tokens for the Dol Amroth toll road and a _Steward's Favorite Son_ ID card, anyway.

Boromir, deeply frazzled, uncorked the flask again and chugged some more Ent-draught.

Meanwhile, the guard accosted Gandalf, who had been silently watching the proceedings with an amused and not entirely benevolent smile. "Ah _ha!_ And what is _this_?"

"My staff."

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_THE CODE OF LEGITIMATE HUMOR WRITING, SECTION 12, ARTICLE 8_

_In conjunction with Article 7, jokes about staffs are in poor taste as well. This rule also extends to swords, spears, javelins, bows and arrows, daggers, maces, bolas, wands, broomsticks, and staves. _

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"Hand it over!"

Gandalf adopted the sort of facial expression usually found on the countenances of small children begging for sweets and war refugees on fundraising commercials. "Surely you would not part an old man from his walking stick?"

The guard snorted and repeated his mantra: "Them's the rules."

Gandalf considered this for a moment, and then dealt the guard a sharp blow to the head with the head of his staff, at which he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"My deepest apologies, Háma," the wizard said, addressing the guard's prone form, "but it was entirely necessary." Then, gesturing imperiously to his three companions, he swept into the hall, leaving five dumbstruck sentries in his wake.

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"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King!" the White Wizard boomed as he strode assertively toward the throne of the Lord of the Mark, while Legolas, Aragorn, and Boromir lingered uncertainly behind him.

The wizened man seated in the gilded chair raised bloodshot eyes blearily and croaked out, in a voice as dry as sawdust, "Why... should I welcome you…Gan…….dalf……Storm…….crow…..?" He cast a look of watery appraisal toward the small black-robed man who clung to the armrest of his throne like a limpet.

There was noise not unlike that of the five readers who have also read _Stamps_ muttering that they've heard that joke already.

The black-robed man nodded, saying, "A just question, my Liege," and rose to his feet to ooze across the floor like large and oddly fluid bat. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear! _Láthspell_, I name you. Ill news is an ill guest."

"This is bound to go nowhere good," grumbled Boromir, and quaffed another mouthful of Ent-draught for good measure.

"Is that addictive?" whispered Aragorn.

"Why do you ask?" Boromir whispered back.

"Because you've only drunk from it sixty-five times in the last fifteen minutes!"

"I refuse to hold discourse with you, vambrace-thief; ply your twaddle with Legolas instead," said Boromir in his most dismissive I'm-the-heir-to-the-Stewardship-_and_-Captain-General-and-that's-just-about-enough-out-of-you tone, as he stowed the flask away once more and turned from Elendil's heir to watch the Gandalf, who was now menacing the small black-robed man with his staff and spouting insults at will. Armed guards were now edging toward them surreptitiously, weapons drawn. Boromir reached for his sword instinctively, and then remembered that he didn't have one, and, as he cast his eyes warily around the vicinity, saw that there were no prospective armaments in sight.

So, when the nearest guard rushed him unexpectedly, Boromir tripped him with an outstretched leg and cracked the larger half of the riven Horn of Gondor on his head.

Legolas, meanwhile, had produced a curling iron from somewhere inside his shoe, and full-blown battle thus commenced.

"Too long have you dwelled in shadow," called Gandalf to Théoden over the din. "I release you from this spell."

Théoden laughed wheezily. "You have no power over me, Gandalf the Grey!"

Gandalf drew himself up to his full height (five foot eleven and three-quarters) and flung the gray cloak off his shoulders; the hall was suddenly bathed in (yet another) blinding surge of fluorescent white light. Théoden turned his head, squinting away from the dazzling brightness.

"Then I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound!" And, thus saying, Gandalf raised his staff, opened his eyes, and…

The doors to the hall burst open.

Gandalf's personal radiance was swallowed up in the suffusion of golden sunlight that flooded the pillared vestibule; the battle halted, and Gandalf whirled around as a dark, solid shape separated itself from the glow of light and…

"I'm sorry; is this Chapter 7?" asked Faramir, peering around in confusion.

"Chapter 6," replied everyone simultaneously.

Faramir blinked. "Oh. I see. Well, I apologize for the interruption. I'll be going, then, shall I?" He glanced around shiftily. "I was never here, alright?" Quietly, he slunk back out of the hall, shutting the door behind him with a sharp _click_. A moment later, the door opened a second time, and Faramir poked his head inside. "Sorry to bother you lot again, but do any of you get the sense that I'm being used as a gimmick?"

"Oh, no! Never!" came the various encouraging responses.

"Well, that's good, then. Remember… you never saw me… I was never here." The door closed again, and everyone waited for a moment with bated breath, but it did not reopen.

Gandalf groaned and lapsed off into a muttered harangue about dispersing the tension of a climactic moment, loss of dramatic emphasis, and the tendency of Húrins to always steal everyone else's thunder.

The combatants glanced around at one another, but no one was particularly inclined to resume the skirmish. Everyone was certainly the worse for wear; many of the guards sported lumps on the head, and one of them appeared to be missing an eye (Aragorn was also holding a slightly bloody Evenstar pendant like a dagger, but nobody desired to inquire further). In addition, Legolas was rebraiding his ruffled hair with small crooning sounds of pain and indignation—it had become mussed in the mêlée—and all of Boromir's wounds had reopened, to his chagrin.

There was a moment in which everyone stared at each other awkwardly. "Anyone up for drinks?" suggested one of the guards tentatively.

This proposition was greeted with sounds of general approval, and the battered and battle-weary crowd, Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir among them, began to shuffle toward the door.

"Wait! Don't you want to see the exorcism?" cried Gandalf in dismay.

There was a pause, followed by a resounding _Nah!_, and the former opponents made their way into the street, whooping and clapping one another on the back and wincing and generally congratulating one another on a fight well fought; forgetting, for a time, that they were living in a state of Fear, and celebrating the joys of camaraderie and the prospect of ale. Boromir collapsed from blood loss on the way to the taverns, but this went largely unnoticed.

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**A/N:** For those of you who still held out a vague hope that this fic would settle down into any kind of normalcy as it progressed, I regret to inform you that it only gets worse from here.

Oh, and never fear, Gimli shall return! Not for a while, granted, but he is not forgotten…


	7. Eru, Anything But Farangst

**Disclaimers:** The order in which the following words are placed is entirely mine. Most of the words themselves, however, aren't.

**A/N:** Reviewers, know that you are well-loved. I know that many authors offer their readers cookies, but my baking skills are negligible. I can make a mean bowl of Ramen noodles, though… would anyone like some Ramen noodles?

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The sun set over the vast plains of Rohan, setting alight the gauzy clouds in its death throes; they flared up in oranges, pinks, and reds, with dim purple shadows looming beneath them, while misted ruddy light burnished bronzed hills copper. In the east, the twilight was coming on, indigo and dusky purple, with a wan sickle moon hung in its translucent folds. Between silvery clouds, the first evening stars had begun to twinkle, one by one, punching pinholes in the velvety firmament, as the sun descended still lower beneath the brim of the western horizon, leaving the sky ravished behind it; its legacy, fleeting and terrible, left written upon the heavens.

Faramir stood on the summit of a gently sloping hillock, booted feet spread and planted firmly in the springy turf, his face aglow in the dying light as a westerly wind swept across the fields to tease the dark green hood from his shoulders and set his shadowy ranger's cloak billowing, and felt Very Silly Indeed.

Not that this was a particularly recent development. This sense of being Very Silly was coming over him with more and more frequency, and it wasn't particularly difficult to see why. Here he was, a Captain of Gondor, the Son of the Steward, mapless and in possession of only the paltriest provisions, wandering aimlessly across the Riddermark in search of his elder brother. And if that wasn't Silly, then Faramir, for one, didn't know what was.

What had possessed him to come out here in the first place? Well, there had been the dreams, and he'd heard the call of the Horn, and naturally he'd been very anxious about Boromir ever since he'd set out for Imladris… but here he was in Rohan without the leave of the Steward, and, having quite deliberately abandoned his post in Ithilien, he was undoubtedly guilty of desertion as well. Faramir would be surprised if there wasn't already a sizeable price on his head back at the White City.

Not to mention that he'd come here utterly unprepared, without any semblance of a concrete plan in mind. It had seemed so sensible at the time… what _had_ he been thinking? This was _rash_. This was _senseless._ This was _Silly._ He ought to just turn around and go back… but he'd come this far, and he still hadn't found Boromir, and…

There he went again.

He was beginning to display various other strange lapses in character of late—indecisiveness, for one. Faramir had never been indecisive before that he could remember, and the experience was a highly unsettling one. And that wasn't all. He was now starting to also discover a strange propensity for embarking on long-winded, anguished internal monologues that just seemed to go on and…

**_(Censored)._** He was doing it _again_, wasn't he? He was staring into a bloody sunset and _angsting!_ What in Eru's name was _wrong_ with him? Faramir fought to repress a wail of frustration. He was forced to screw up his face and blink quite a bit, but in the end he managed it, though his eyes still watered a bit from the impulse.

Oh, yes. And there was the crying.

The crying.

The urge to cry had been coming over him so regularly and so insistently over the past few days that he could feel his internal will to resist it slowly beginning to crumble. His throat would go very dry and his nose would start to burn and his vision would cloud and there he'd be, with the desire to throw himself on the ground and weep so powerful that it was almost unbearable.

He thought about his father and he wanted to cry about that. He thought about Boromir and he wanted to cry about that. He thought about Sauron and Mordor and Orcs and Haradrim and death and war and forest fires and shipwrecks and orphans and small puppies being kicked and he wanted to cry about _that_, too.

Was this some strange device of the Enemy that set his lower lip aquiver and made his tear ducts behave like faulty plumbing? Or was it some wasting disease, like his mother's fatal sea-longing? Whatever it was, it was certainly affecting his ability to behave rationally. It was almost as if he was slowly morphing into another person. What next—was his hair color going to change, too?

An interruption to Faramir's musings came in the form of a large _éored_ that galloped up the hill and surrounded him with a ring of spears.

"And what business does a Man, an Elf, and… wait…" The cross-looking rider who had spoken looked momentarily confused before continuing, "What business does a Man have in the Riddermark?"

"Er… I'm looking for my brother…?" said Faramir tentatively. His nose was beginning to tingle. _Eru damn it, not now..._

"_Hah!"_ exclaimed the Rider. "_Hah!_ That's what they _all_ say! 'Oh, I'm just looking for my brother!' 'Oh, I'm just looking for some friends!' You know, that's what that hairy midget type told me when he came to border crossing _yesterday_, and he ended up getting into a drunken brawl at one of the pubs! Maimed three people! I need some ID from you!"

"I… hold on, wait a minute…" Faramir rummaged through his pockets for a moment and then groaned, "Oh, it's no use… I've gone and left my 'Steward's Favorite Son's Younger Brother' card in Ithilien," before bursting into tears.

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"I hope you have a good explanation for this, young man," said Finduilas irritably.

Boromir scowled. "Look, Mother, it wasn't like I bled to death again on _purpose._ This whole affair is ten times more uncomfortable for me than it is for you, I assure you."

Finduilas shrugged in grudging assent and pursed her lips. "I can only say that it most trying, getting plucked unexpectedly from the midst of one's tea and whisked off to serve as somebody's deathbed vision. It really throws my whole day out of line. And the fact that it has happened _twice_ in the…"

"I told you, it isn't my fault," growled Boromir through gritted teeth. "And if your precious _Thorongil_ would get a move on, we wouldn't have to wait here quite so long."

"Don't you dare talk back to me, Boromir!" she snapped. "And don't bring Gil into this! He has quite enough on his plate without having to gallivant through the afterlife every other day!"

"Oh, yes, because stealing my throne and my glory and my vambraces takes up so much valuable time," muttered Boromir sulkily.

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The aforementioned Thorongil (also known as Aragorn, also known as Estel, also known as Strider, also known as Elessar, also known as Elfstone, also known as Dúnadan, also known as Wingfoot, also known as Evinyatar, also known as Longshanks, also known as Telcontar…) was in fact lying abed, suffering from the worst hangover he had ever experienced in all his eighty-eight years.

Well, excepting that one occasion in 2977, when he'd gone clubbing with Denethor. But that was different. He'd been _trying_ to get Denethor intoxicated so that he wouldn't notice that he and Fin were… anyway, never mind that. It hadn't worked, in any case.

He really shouldn't have gotten into that drinking game with Gimli. But he'd already had a few ales in him and he was feeling so hazily overjoyed at running into his Dwarf companion that he'd agreed and… well, he couldn't really remember anything that had happened after that, but, judging by the dull pounding behind his eyes, it had been something monumental.

There was a knock at the door.

Aragorn ignored it.

The knocking continued persistently, the resonations of the wooden door matching the throbbing in his skull with almost unerring exactitude.

He growled something that even he couldn't understand and rolled over, pulling the sheets more snugly around his shoulders.

The knocking ceased, and silence fell once more.

Then, there was an almighty _bang_ as the door blasted open in a flash of crackling light, rotating on screaming hinges to crash against the stone wall opposite and bounce off again, shuddering violently. Aragorn opened one eye blearily and saw Gandalf the White standing on the threshold.

"Arise, Son of Arathorn. You are needed."

"Nrrrrrgggghh," replied Aragorn dismissively, pulling the coverlet further over his unwashed head.

"Aragorn!" barked Gandalf sharply. "Are you listening?"

"Mmrrff."

"Because if you aren't, I'm going to turn you into a newt and have done with it. Gondor has no use for a King who can't rouse himself from bed when there's a crisis at hand."

"Fine, 'm coming," mumbled the Dúnadan resentfully, sliding out from under the sheets and colliding with the table by the bed. "**(Censored)**. Who put that there?"

The wizard rolled his eyes heavenward as if praying to the Allfather for patience. "Glad to see you so amiable. Come along—we have work to do."

Aragorn kneaded his eyes with grubby knuckles as he trundled after Gandalf down the stone corridor. "So, what's going on? What's this crisis?"

"_Crises_, more like. Théoden's making difficulties about the defense of Rohan; I will need your diplomacy at my disposal."

"I'm not feeling very diplomatic at the moment, I'll have you know," grumbled Aragorn.

"Oh, yes, and Boromir's at death's door again."

Aragorn stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh, no. Oh no no no no _no_."

Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow. "What?"

"I see what this is about. And the answer is _no_. I am _not_ healing that idiot again."

Gandalf sighed. "Don't be difficult about this, Aragorn. If you do it right this time, it will only take a few minutes and…"

"_No._ I refuse. I will not. Never again. No_."_

"You know, I didn't make that threat about the newt lightly," cut in Gandalf ominously, fingering his staff.

Aragorn's eyes widened momentarily and then returned to their customary groggy squint. "Please, can't we just leave him dead, just this once?"

"No."

"_Whhhhy?"_

"Because I said so."

"It's a pity he didn't just die properly in the first place," muttered Isildur's heir.

"Pity?" said Gandalf incredulously. "It was pity that saved him. Many who live deserve death; many who die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Do not be so quick to deal out death in judgment. Even the wise cannot see all ends, and I sense that Boromir will have some part to play before the end—for good or evil."

Aragorn paused, considering this. "That argument makes no sense whatsoever."

The wizard thought it through a second time. "No, I suppose it didn't. Curses—and it was _so_ eloquent." He peered down at Aragorn. "But the newt offer still stands."

Aragorn sighed. "Fine. Where is he?"

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"… and if your father were here…"

"Given where we are, _Mother_," interrupted Boromir tetchily, "I think that statement is somewhat ill-chosen."

Finduilas opened her mouth, doubtless to spout forth yet another reprimand, but it closed and rearranged itself into a fawning smile as her gaze shifted from Boromir to someone standing immediately behind him. Boromir didn't even need to turn round to guess the identity of the intruder.

"Hello again, Gil," said Finduilas coyly. "I see you've come to retrieve my son again. I'm sorry he's made himself such a bother."

"Only Denethor could have fathered someone so interminably vexing," griped Aragorn. He reached down to haul Boromir to his feet, but the Captain-General was a step ahead of him; he sprang up and, a moment later, had spun around with his dagger drawn and pointed menacingly at a spot between Aragorn's eyes. "Did you do the healing _properly_ this time? Because if I wake up and find out you've sliced me open again, so help me Eru, Aragorn…"

Before Aragorn had time to say anything, Finduilas leapt forward and wrenched the dagger from Boromir's hands. "_Boromir!_ What have I told you about pointing sharp objects at people?" she chided angrily before turning back to Aragorn, "I meant to make you some muffins to take back with you, you know, but there wasn't time…"

Aragorn let forth a reminiscent sigh. "Ah, the famous blueberry muffins of Dol Amroth. I haven't had those in nearly fifty years."

"Well, perhaps next time… not that there shall _be_ a next time," she added sharply, glancing at Boromir. "Here is your dagger, son. Put it away, please… _in its sheath!"_ (Boromir resentfully complied.) "Now, be off with you. Stay out of trouble, and keep an eye on your little brother. Farewell, Gil… it really has been _lovely_ seeing you again. If you end up in neighborhood anytime soon—Eru forbid!—remind me about those muffins. I remember how much you used to like them."

"Oh, I liked them alright," affirmed Aragorn with a suggestive waggle of the eyebrows.

Finduilas giggled.

Boromir found himself slightly nauseous. Thankfully, Aragorn soon seized him by the elbow and steered him away from his mother, along the mist-wreathed pathways and foggy avenues that led back to life.

"Boromir," he said presently. "It is early in the morning. I am tired, I am hung over, and I am seriously pissed off at Gandalf. And if you make one single smart comment on our way back, I will turn around and pummel you into the ground. Is that clear?"

Nearly ten dozen smart comments immediately sprang to Boromir's mind, but the one he chose to use was admittedly rather childish.

"_Oooooh_, I'm _so-o-o_ scared!"

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Gandalf breathed a sigh of relief when he saw both Men of Gondor, one seated in a chair and the other laid out across the bed, regain consciousness. "A job well done, Aragorn! I must say…" He trailed off, glancing back and forth between the pair of them suspiciously. "How come both of you have black eyes?"

"We, er… we had an _accident_," said the Dúnadan. The sullen reciprocated glare that passed from Aragorn to Boromir did not go unnoticed by the Istari, but he rather wisely chose not to comment.

Boromir meanwhile, sat up with a slight wince and peered around, his gaze finally coming to rest on the nightstand. "Where's my Ent-draught?" he asked with a slight desperation that made Gandalf nervous.

"You drank it all yesterday, you greedy lummox!" snarled Aragorn as he stalked from the room, prodding his swollen eye gingerly.

"Did I? Yes, I suppose I did." Boromir paused, looking confused. "Gandalf, do you have any more, by any chance? It was quite helpful. More than helpful, actually. In fact, I feel as though I might throw up if I don't have some at this minute. Is that normal?"

Gandalf felt that the time to confess had finally come. "Well, not really. You see, the Ent-draught was more… more of an _experiment_, really…"

Boromir stared at him expectantly.

"It doesn't have any _real_ medicinal value, as it were. I just wanted to see if it would help you psychologically—the placebo effect, you see. The fact was, it, er… it wasn't actually Ent-draught."

Boromir gaped. "Then what, exactly," he began slowly, "was it?"

Gandalf exhaled deeply. "Coffee. Starbucks, to be exact."

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers stating flatly that product placement has its limits.

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**A/N:** Well… I feel like I owe you lot an apology for this chapter. It wasn't particularly funny, and I intended for a lot more to happen, but I got a bit sidetracked while I was writing it and… well, here we are. The next installment will be better. I hope.


	8. This Is Not A Drill

**Disclaimers:** Well, I don't know exactly who owns LotR, but I'd be prepared to bet that it isn't a penniless teenager with a twisted sense of humor and a proclivity for writing fanfic. (Obviously, I use the term "bet" figuratively, as the literal interpretation of the word implies that the speaker has some capital with which to gamble).

**A/N:** Somewhere between the incomprehensible joys of Modern Education and Organized Sport, I have found time to update. You have my social life, or lack thereof, to thank largely for this fact.

Well, I have a pot of Ramen for twenty simmering on the stove… would you lot prefer "Oriental" or "Chicken Teriyaki"?

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"By order of King Théoden, the city must empty!" the loud and officious voice of Háma boomed over the milling crowd of somewhat unkempt citizens that lined the cobbled square of the city of Edoras. "Immediately, at once, and in a reasonably orderly fashion! Gamling here will explain the proper Evacuation Procedure™!"

A second guardsmen, also red-haired and rather singularly unattractive (as indeed seems to be their wont) appeared at Háma's elbow, thrust out his armored chest importantly, and cleared his throat pointedly. "_Ahem!_ My name is Gamling, and I'm here to explain the proper Evacuation Procedure™! All civilians are to make their way to the nearest shelter, avoiding glass windows and unstable structures, where they are to crouch on their knees with their hands placed firmly on their heads, until such time as…"

"Gamling!" hissed Háma.

The guard paused, irritated. "_What?"_

"That's the Tornado Drill, not the Evacuation Procedure."

"Oh." He looked disconcerted for a few moments; then, seeming to gather his bearings, he straightened and coughed once more. "_Ahem!_ The proper Evacuation Procedure is to progress thus: all civilians are to make their way to a previously designated room of the house, or to the nearest house available, where they are to crouch well out of sight of doors and windows. It is also advisable to barricade…"

"No, no, no, that's the Intruder Drill!" cut in Háma.

Gamling paused again. "It is, isn't it? Wait, I'm sure I've got it right this time… _Ahem!_ All civilians are to exit the home by a prearranged route and convene at a designated meeting place…"

"Fire Drill."

"Oh, blast… er, All civilians are to place their heads between their knees and kiss their asses goodbye…"

"That's the Atomic Bomb Drill, you imbecile!" barked Háma. " And look, now you've made me go and make an anachronistic remark in front of commoners! _What_ have I told you about that!"

"Sorry," muttered Gamling sheepishly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and staring at the ground penitently, interspersing his performance with well-placed sniffles of contrition.

"Oh, here now, don't act as if you're a small puppy and I've just kicked you," replied Háma gruffly, though his admonitory tone was somewhat softened. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small scroll of yellowish paper and proffered it to his companion.

"Here, just read this."

Gamling looked up, nonplussed. "I thought the Rohirrim didn't read…?"

Háma rolled his eyes. "Play along..."

"Right, then." He unfurled the parchment and turned to once more address the masses, which continued to await their orders patiently, albeit with increasing perplexity. "_Ahem!_ The… standard Evacuation Procedure of… Rohan!" He halted, squinting at the authoritative lettering. "By the order of King (Name of Ruler), the city of (Name of City) must empty! We make for the refuge of (Name of Refuge)! Do not…"

"Oh, shove off, I'll do this myself," grunted Háma, elbowing Gamling aside. "The city of Edoras must empty! We make for the refuge of Helm's Deep! Do not burden yourself with treasures! Take only what provisions you need! And by 'provisions', we mean food, water, and clothing essentials, folks! We'll be searching every barrel, bottle, and haycart that leaves the city, so don't bother trying!"

"Damn," muttered the toothless old woman in the front.

"What about the prisoners?" called the city bailiff, who was standing on a large barrel in the back so as to have an elevated view of the proceedings.

"_What_ prisoners?" asked Háma impatiently.

"The Edoras jailhouse is full, sir," the man explained. "Nothing too serious… some petty theft, a few assault and battery, several drunk and disorderly, a fraudulent banking scheme or two… but, amidst the confusion of the evacuation, there always runs a possible risk of escape, and I wished to inquire how best to transfer…"

"I see," nodded the guard, stroking his bearded chin thoughtfully. "Well, do you suppose you'd have time enough to just execute them all before we leave, and save the trouble?"

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"Rise and shine, we're going for a walk," said Aragorn, poking his head into the room.

Boromir looked up from hearth of the large stone fireplace, where he was curled in a large and ridiculously comfortable armchair. Though he was still suffering from the aftershocks of coffee deprivation and several recent deaths, —as indeed might be expected; the recent deaths had all been his own, and there was not even a frapuccino at hand to ease the pains of heartache…!— but large amounts of sleep, reasonably good food, and a redressing of partially healed wounds had taken their toll on his mental and bodily physique, and he was feeling more optimistic than he had in days. Not, however, in matters concerning the King. Anything involving Aragorn seemed to follow a straight and narrow path to imminent pain. "I think not," replied Boromir coolly.

"Oh, but I think so. Up you get," said the Dúnadan, and, seizing Boromir firmly by the forearm, hauled him from the chair and prodded him toward the chamber door. "The fresh air will do you good."

The Gondorian Captain-General shrugged off the slighter Aragorn crossly and made his way back toward the cushioned embrace of the armchair, stating as he went, "A decent cup of c-c….c-c-cof…f….fff…." He stuttered to a halt.

"Coffee?" supplied Aragorn.

Boromir shuddered. "Yes, _that._ A decent cup would do me better. I see that you still haven't managed to find me any."

The Dúnadan bristled. "I told you, they don't drink coffee here!" (He tactfully avoided mentioning the steaming mug that he had swiped from Boromir's breakfast tray every morning on his way past the kitchens; it wasn't that he was being greedy, really, he just felt that it was his duty as a sympathetic friend to see that Boromir overcame his addiction before it destroyed him. Really). "Moreover, I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftan of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the West, Bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, the Eflstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor, not your personal errand-runner! I am your King, not your coffee-fetcher, and if I say that we are going for a walk—then we—are going—for—a walk!"

He drew himself up to his full height, seeming to tower over Boromir in the chair; power radiated from his frame, his gray eyes burned, and he looked every inch King of the Men of the West.

Boromir snorted.

"You aren't King _yet_. And perhaps you never will be," he went on thoughtfully. "Many things could happen between now and future. Battles, duels, malfunctioning kitchen equipment… you know what I mean. And, as I might remind you, I am heir to the Stewardship, the line that has very competently ruled Gondor for the past few millennia, while certain royal heirs were gallivanting about the countryside, shirking their responsibilities. And if a Ranger from the North attempts to coerce me into going for a walk when I am disinclined to do so, then I—am _not_—going for—a walk!"

"Oh, but you are. You swore fealty to me; you are bound to obey my commands," countered Aragorn, folding his arms across his chest.

Boromir considered lifting his eyebrow, but restrained himself; at the rate he was going, he'd have turned into Elrond before much longer. "I swore fealty to you? When was this, pray tell?"

"Right before you died?"

"Which time?" demanded Boromir.

"The first time. You know…" Aragorn folded his arms across his chest, grimacing in an appropriate imitation, and, inserting choking gasps and swallows as required, said, "'I would have followed you, my brother, my Captain, my King'?"

"That does _not_ count," growled Boromir.

"Oh, _but_ it does."

"It doesn't! I was delusional! I was in pain! I was _dying_, for the Valar's sake; I would have said the same thing to Gimli if he'd been the one leaning over me at the time."

They paused, both thinking of the massive political fiasco that had only just barely been avoided.

"As it happens," stated Aragorn presently, "it was _I_ who was leaning over you at the time. You gave your fealty to _me."_

"Not _officially,"_ countered Boromir. "And the words I used were 'I _would have_ followed you.' Would have. As in, 'if circumstances had been different.' As in, 'if I didn't have three arrows sticking out my chest.' As in, '_hypothetically._'"

"Boromir, you've died three times; this might as well _be_ hypothetical."

Boromir didn't reply.

"Listen," said Aragorn through gritted teeth. "I don't like you and you don't like me, and that's fine. But with Frodo and Sam on their way to Mordor and Merry and Pippin somewhere in Fangorn and Gandalf popping around changing colors and Gimli off getting drunk who-knows-where… well, to put it this way, together with Legolas, we're the last of the Fellowship. We're in this mess together. And… and we should stick together."

There was a long moment during which Boromir looked at Aragorn and Aragorn looked at Boromir and the last glowing embers of the dying fire in the grate crackled tentatively. Somewhere in the background of this tension-driven pause there was also a vague continuous sound not unlike that of ten thousand AraBoro shippers breathing heavily in unison, but this passed unheard by either party in question.

"So," said Aragorn finally. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

"No."

Aragorn shrugged and said, "Have it your way," before bending over, seizing the armchair by its two back legs, and jerking upwards with all his strength. Boromir went toppling onto the hearth with a singularly unmanly squeal.

"Eeeiighh! What the **(censored)** was that for?" Boromir straightened with a flinch, dusting soot from his tunic, and glared at Aragorn murderously.

"I don't bother making sentimental speeches very often," said Aragorn evenly, "and when I _do_, I very much dislike being snubbed."

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In the end, Boromir agreed to go for a walk. Belying his former irritation, Aragorn urged him along the drafty passages of the Golden Hall in the same manner that he might a balky stallion along a narrow causeway, inserting occasional "Just a bit further, now"s that nearly curdled his blood to the core. The Aragorn that brooded in dusky corners and the Aragorn that flipped over invalids' armchairs without warning were both well known to him, but this Aragorn, whom he half-expected to pull out a bag of sugar cubes at any moment, made him even more highly suspicious than before, were that even possible. He was sure that there was more to this little promenade than met the eye.

And he was, of course, right.

Standing on the summit of the steeply sloping stone steps of the hall of Methuseld, Boromir gazed at the entire luggage-laden population crowding the pebble-paved streets and said, "We're going for a walk, eh?"

Aragorn sighed. "Well, it's more of…more of a _hike_, actually…"

Boromir's eyebrow, arching like the impertinent upper curve of a question mark, leapt up his brow before he could think to restrain it.

"Fine," conceded Isildur's heir wearily, "the city's been given the order to evacuate."

"Evacuate," said Boromir slowly, "to where, might I ask?"

"Er… Helm's Deep."

"We're _walking_ to _Helm's Deep?"_ cried Boromir with a lurch.

Aragorn shifted guiltily. "Yes. A bit." Then, he added quickly, "And Gandalf said I wasn't to leave you behind, or he'd turn my… er, he said you weren't to be left behind. Though Eru knows what use he thinks you'll be…"

"Don't think of the distance in literal terms," interjected Legolas, appearing at Boromir's elbow. "Think of the distance as merely physical, only a pittance—a distance your _fëa _can traverse with ease…"

"Yes, but it's my _hröa_ I'm concerned about at the moment," said Boromir. "It and my _fëa_ appear to be going through some relationship difficulties."

"Well, if my _hröa_ looked anything like yours, then I would hardly find that surprising," replied the Elf clinically.

Thankfully for Legolas's delicate lily-white Elven neck, Boromir was suddenly distracted by a commotion on the other side of the square. "What's going on over there?"

Aragorn squinted in the direction of the hubbub. "It looks like they're holding a few last-minute executions. Economically motivated, I suppose… I imagine they don't want the city convicts holding up the expedition…"

"Popcorn, sir?" asked a lad in a pleated cap, popping up somewhere around the vicinity of Boromir's knees.

"Er… thanks," replied Boromir, hesitantly taking a grease-stained package of kettle corn from the tray.

"Enjoy the show," he said, with a wink, and disappeared back into the throng.

Boromir gazed down at the popcorn in his hand dubiously. "How very macabre. Do they actually expect us to find this entertaining?"

"Shut up, I can't hear!" hissed Aragorn, craning his neck and hopping up and down on the spot.

Legolas, also peering intently at the scene, suddenly caught his arm. "Say, isn't that Gimli?" He pointed toward the shortest and hairiest of the prisoners.

"Gimli?" said Boromir sharply. "How'd he get here?"

"He got bored with sitting around Amon Hen, it would appear," answered Aragorn. "From what he was telling me when we met up last night, he appears to have been clubbing his way through Rohan since… I imagine they nabbed him for drunk and disorderly again. Or maybe assault and battery. With Dwarves, the difference isn't particularly marked."

"But if he's been clubbing his way through Rohan," argued Boromir, "then how did he arrive in Edoras within a few hours of us, given that we ran here like maniacs?"

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers crying, "_BECAUSE, IN THIS WORLD, TIME AND SPACE HAVE NO CONGENTIAL MEANING!"_

"What they said," affirmed Aragorn. "Well… do you suppose we should rescue him or something, before he gets the chopper?"

"Must we?" whined Legolas.

"Yes, we must," said Aragorn. "Nothing could be simpler… I'll follow the trail of the popcorn vendor using the trace oil residue dripping from the bags and the comparative pavement temperature caused by the ratio of his weight to the speed at which he was walking, ducking and weaving as I go, until I reach the scaffold, where I'll dip behind that barrel and…"

"Wouldn't it be easier just to cause a diversion?" suggested Boromir.

Aragorn glowered at the incidental slight to his craft. "Like _what?"_

"Like this," said Boromir, as he filled his lungs with air, turned his face to sky, and bellowed—

"**_NAAAAAAAAAAAAAZGÛL!"_**

In the ensuing pandemonium, Boromir reminded himself to thank Faramir for that one.

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An hour later, the dismal parade of Rohirrim and assorted hangers-on was wending its way through the straw-colored hills toward the fortress of Helm's Deep. At the head of the party Legolas skipped gaily, to the horror of most concerned, while Boromir shambled (slightly more steadily than previously, it might be noted) somewhere toward the middle. Beside him, a somewhat intoxicated Gimli was propped up on a horse, from which he was flirting clumsily with the King's niece; though Éowyn, Boromir noted ruefully, only had eyes for Aragorn.

What was it about this mangy, unwashed Ranger that drew women to him like moths to a flame? There had been that Elf chick back in Rivendell, and he'd been pretty sure that the loaded looks Galadriel had been throwing the man in Lothlórien weren't all telepathically motivated. Not to mention that his own long-dead mother behaved like a twittering schoolgirl whenever "Gil" was in a fifteen-foot radius. Boromir shuddered slightly at the unsettling memory.

The man walking just ahead of Boromir turned and handed him a stick of charcoal.

The Captain-General held it gingerly between his forefinger and thumb. "Er… thank you?"

"Write your name on your arm. We're all supposed to," explained the man. "It's standard regulation. Classification purposes, you know."

"I though the Rohirrim couldn't write…?"

The man shrugged. "Play along."

Boromir cast a sideways look at Aragorn, who muttered, "It's so that they can identify your body if you happen to die on the march."

"Ah," said Boromir. Such things were not unheard of; a large-scale evacuation was an administrative nightmare when it came to the business of keeping track of people.

He paused for a moment, lifted the charcoal, and scrawled _Guess who?_

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Hours passed, and still the wearisome march went on. Legolas gradually drifted back through the ranks and joined the rest of his comrades, eventually falling into step beside Boromir.

Boromir, meanwhile, was sunk deep in thought, prey to nagging thoughts that had been plaguing him for several days now. Presently, he decided to voice his qualms.

"Legolas," he said slowly, biting his lip. "Can I ask you something?"

"kk!1111 lol" replied the Elf.

Boromir blinked. "Pardon?"

Legolas jumped at the inquiry, looking about dazedly as if waking from a reverie. "I apologize. I meant to say 'of course.'"

"Right," said Boromir, eyeing his companion with a slight misgiving. "Well… what I wanted to ask was… well, it's a bit odd, really… I'm not quite sure how to put it…"

Legolas peered at him expectantly.

Boromir rambled on. "I mean to say… do you ever get the feeling… no, that's not the right word… do you ever get the _impression_… the impression that we're… that we're…" He trailed off.

After several moments, Legolas prompted, "That we're…?"

The Gondorian took a deep breath and blurted out, "Do you ever get the impression that our thoughts and actions are being controlled by some unseen being who delights in manipulating our wills for some sick pleasure of their own?"

"Oh." The Elf looked thoughtful. "So you believe in Eru, then?"

"_No_, and that wasn't what I meant!" cried Boromir. "I meant… I didn't mean a god, or anything of that nature… that would lend religious undertones to this fic that I'm sure we'd all like to avoid…"

"For the love of the Valar, Boromir, stop that!" cried Aragorn testily from their left.

"Excuse me?"

"Look," said Isildur's heir irritably, with the air of an impatient adult explaining something very simple to a stubbornly unresponsive child, "you can't go on and on about your vague fears that some omnipotent force is controlling our lives and then make reference to awareness of your own fictionality in the next breath. It isn't on. You've got to have it one way or the other; either you've got to know that you're a character all the time, or not at all."

"It isn't all me," grumbled Boromir. "_You_ mentioned playing Blackjack a few chapters ago. That's an anachronism."

"Is 'anachronism' the new Word of the Month or something?" put in Legolas.

"And what about Legolas's contact lenses? And the popcorn? And the… and the…. And the c-c-coff…"

"The coffee," said Legolas helpfully.

"Yes. That."

"Look, anachronisms aren't quite the same," said Aragorn defensively. "You can scatter in a few of those and it's only an oddity, but it's not the same as actual consciousness of fictionality. Like when Faramir had his little mixup in Chapter Six; he mentioned that he was being used as a gimmick in the story, didn't he? But by the next chapter, we were all blithely unaware of our status as characters. Come to think of it," added Aragorn, "maybe breaking the Fourth Wall is just a Húrin thing."

"Oh, don't pin this on _us!"_ cried Boromir. "What do you think you're doing right now? By having this argument in the first place, you're stating your awareness of our own fictionality! _You've_ been breaking the Fourth Wall, too."

Aragon paused for a moment. "It isn't the same."

"Yes, it _is!"_

"No, it _isn't!"_

"Fine, let's settle this once and for all," said Legolas. He leapt gracefully onto the nearest rock and spread his arms wide. "Riders of Rohan!" he cried. "Do we exist?"

There were rallying cries of "Yes!" and "No!"

The Elf jumped down lightly from the boulder, looking pleased. "See? This just ties in with the whole theme of this story, which is, of course, incongruity."

"I thought that the theme of this story was the frailty of human mortality and the futility of human action?" argued Aragorn.

"I thought this story didn't _have_ a theme because it's a bloody _parody?"_ put in Boromir.

"The theme of this story," said Gimli groggily, "is that sex solves everything."

Everyone turned around in perfectly choreographed unison. "Wherever did you get _that?"_ demanded Aragorn.

"Hey, who's the happiest character in this fandom?" asked the Dwarf indistinctly.

Aragorn paused. "Er, Tom Bombadil, I suppose…"

"_Exactly._ And when he's not watching young hobbits streak across the Barrow-downs, I bet he and Goldberry bugger like rabbits."

"But Tom Bombadil isn't even _in_ this story," objected Aragorn. "And probably won't ever be, given that it seems to be predominantly movie-based…"

"Valar, who's breaking the Fourth Wall _now?"_ said Boromir.

"It's not the same! We've been talking about it for so long that it's now become indoctrinated into the general premise of the story, and is therefore no longer taboo!"

"You're just saying that."

"No, I'm not! And I'm the King! If I want to be absurd, I bloody well _can!"_

"_You're not the King yet, for the last time!"_

"WARGS!" screamed Legolas, and things went downhill from there.

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**A/N:** I'm really, really, _really_ hoping that this is one of those chapters that grows on me after a while (Chapter 7 was one of those). Because I'm feeling the _ick_ factor pretty strongly right now. This has been the hardest chapter to write so far, and is also coincidentally the longest. If anyone would care to explain this to me, please do.

Incidentally, for those who aren't familiar with weird ff lingo, the Fourth Wall is a fanfic term used to describe the invisible barrier between fiction and reality. A character is said to be "breaking the Fourth Wall" when he or she directly addresses his/her audience or makes reference to his/her status as a fictional character.


	9. Of Broken Horns and Wayward Equines

**Disclaimers:** What, do you want a trivia question? Oh, fine then: Which of the following persons does _not_ own LotR? A) Eggo Waffles, B) Eggo Waffles, C) Eggo Waffles, D) Eggo Waffles, or E) Eggo Waffles? (_Hint: Pick C)_

**A/N:** omg!111tank u 4 all teh culio reveiws!11111omg u rox mysoxx!11lol

(_cough)_ _Anyway_… thanks for reading. Also, thanks to everybody who enlightened me on the origins of the fourth wall. We learn new things every day!

Also, about the whole "guess who?" thing—if there's a natural disaster, they _do_ actually ask everyone who isn't evacuating to write their name on their arm in permanent marker. Freaky, huh? (I wrote "None of your business").

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"People of Rohan! We are Under Attack! This is not a drill! Do not panic! Listen closely! The proper Running Like Hooligans Away From Ravenous Wargs Procedure™ is to progress thus! All civilians are to position themsel_aaaaaaaarggghhhh!"_

The premature termination of Háma's public safety broadcast was met with grief by some and relief by most others.

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Boromir, still somewhat under the weather as he was, felt rather lost amidst all the confusion.

Surrounded on all sides by sweaty horses, sweaty Riders, and sweaty Rohannic villagers that were so singularly dirty as to give Aragorn a run for his money, he craned his eyes for the sight of a familiar face. Legolas was at the head of the column, showing off his archery skills in the most appallingly ostentatious manner; Gimli's horse and its inebriated rider had galloped away to who-knows-where; and Aragorn was busy ralphing his guts into a nearby gorse bush, the sudden life-threatening turn of events having excited the overlarge helping of Éowyn's stew within his digestive system. Boromir mused to himself that this would have been an exceptionally convenient opportunity to put Aragorn out of commission for the throne, but presently decided that offing any man while his back was turned did not suit his warrior's scruples. Besides, there were children watching.

After a few moments of impassioned retching, the Ranger dashed back into the foray, wiping his mouth on his filthy sleeve. "_Boromir!"_ he shouted at the Gondorian. "Where is our horse?"

"Our horse?"

"Yes. Our horse."

"Er… _what_ horse?"

"_Our _horse!"

"Oh. That." Boromir paused. "We haven't got a horse."

Aragorn stared at him for a moment. Then, comprehension dawned in his eyes.

"Eru,you're _right!_ Gah! See where venturing outside the bounds of canon has landed us!"

"I think that I can probably sympathize with that sentiment more thoroughly than anyone else on Arda," said Boromir pointedly, "but you just broke the fourth wall again."

"Oh, **(censored)**the fourth wall! That was _so_ last chapter!" replied Aragorn dismissively. He cast his eyes around the chaotic scenery, the flippant expression he was wont to wear when conversing with Boromir fading away to be replaced by one of slight desperation. "What are going to do? Battle is at hand! We must have a horse! Sir! _Sir!"_ He attempted to attract the attention of a nearby Rider. "Have you a spare horse?"

The Rider ignored him, jamming his helmet onto his head firmly and adjusting his reins. Aragorn trotted alongside him, waving his arms. "Excuse me! _Excuse me!" _When this produced no effect, he stamped his foot belligerently and cried, "The Lord of the Dúnedain would have your attention!"

"Piss off," grunted the Rider, and galloped away, leaving a thoroughly enraged Aragorn fuming in his wake. "_Hria cuilë! Naneth gîn thia orch!"_ he bellowed at the retreating figure before trudging back over to Boromir's side. "Well, so much for _that._ Whatever will we do now?"

"Well, do we really need a horse?" said Boromir. "I mean, isn't running headlong into fully pitched battle against a hopeless number of heavily armed foes with only a sword and minimal body armor to our names sort of… well, sort of our _trademark?"_

"Yes," conceded Aragorn, "but that kind of heroism is much less impressive when you get mown down by one of your own side's warhorses ten seconds in."

"Too true." Boromir thought for a moment. "I suppose another diversion is in order?"

"Somehow, I think that yelling 'Nazgûl' in the middle of a skirmish with Wargs will breed a rather ill effect," said Aragorn.

"I have a better idea." And, so saying, Boromir reached for his hip, where hung the Horn of Gondor. Lifting the silver mouthpiece to his lips, he blew a long low note, proud and poignant and almost mournful in its resonance, evoking thoughts of white towers and bright banners and the glories of the Lords of old. It rang over the battlefield, louder at first, then fading away softly like gray mist over the Sea.

No one paid any heed.

"Philistines," muttered Boromir irritably, and blew a sharp E that caused everyone to fall off their mounts simultaneously.

He used the distraction to his advantage, catching the reins of the nearest riderless horse and leading it over to where Aragorn stood.

Aragorn blinked somewhat dazedly, ears still ringing. "Where do you _learn_ all these diversions?"

"When called upon to provide my father with reports as to the status of Osgiliath in these latter days, Faramir and I have been obliged to think up a great many distractive devices," said Boromir. "The Horn is often useful in that respect… I once managed to shatter all the glass in the Citadel." He proffered the bridle to Aragorn.

He took it, frowning. "Wait a minute… you broke your Horn! At Amon Hen! And then again in the Golden Hall! How on earth did you…"

"I had it fixed in Edoras," replied Boromir. "I felt that it compromised my masculinity, to be the owner of a broken phallic symbol."

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_THE CODE OF LEGITIMATE HUMOR WRITING, SECTION 12, ARTICLE 9_

_Yes, Articles 7-8 still apply, even if the horn, staff, sword, spear, javelin, bow and arrows, dagger, mace, bola, wand, broomstick, or stave in question _is_ broken. Oh, and did we mention knitting needles?_

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Meanwhile, the brave, the bold, and the somewhat gastronomically inept Lady Éowyn was having a rather public tiff with her uncle.

"I can fight!"

"I'm sure you can, my dear," Théoden replied in a tone of impatient indulgence.

The Shieldmaiden groaned in frustration. "No, really, I can fight! Just ask Lord Aragorn! I nearly took his head off with my sword this morning!"

"Éowyn! You really mustn't do that," chided the King. "Nice boys don't like girls who flaunt phallic symbols indiscriminately and with too much gusto."

"In that case, I'd better give up knitting."

"Why?"

"The needles. They're long and pointed. They might send out the wrong impression."

"That… that isn't the same."

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't!"

"_Yes, it is!"_

"_No, it isn't!"_

"Look, this is ridiculous!" cried Éowyn. "We're in the mountains and desperately outnumbered, and you won't allow an able-bodied soldier to fight simply because she's a woman!"

"Exactly."

"But—"

"Look, Éowyn," said Théoden. "I'm not here for my common sense or my tactical know-how. I'm here to expound upon vague philosophical musings of such an obtuse nature that all present have a strong desire to hit me over the head with a heavy shoe, and to make wildly supercilious assertions that will all end up being inevitably contradicted by later turns of events."

"But—"

"So, if it makes you feel any better, you'll probably end up making a big battle debut sometime in the foreseeable future, just because I've stalwartly told you that you can't."

"But—"

"Lead the women and children to Helm's Deep. I've got Wargs to kill." He clucked to his mount and cantered away.

"_Bloody chauvinists!"_ she yelled after him. "Ah, you men are _all the same!_ Why can't I find a man who's good and honest and clever and brave and true and noble and sensitive and caring and gentle and wise? Why? Why can't I find a man who … who isn't afraid to _cry_?"

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_(Note from historian: The following passage contains many incomplete sentences, disjointed phrases, superfluous capitalization, an extreme overuse of bold and italic fonts, and a universal lack of cohesiveness that is generally abhorrent in the eyes of good literature in as a whole. However, the author wishes to make note of the extreme difficulty encountered in attempting to accurately transcribe mid-battle dialogue, which is by its very nature incoherent and very rarely translates effectively to paper. All apologies due, given)_

"I still say it isn't—_aargh—_fair."

"And I—_aargh—_say that you should shut up."

"Your sense of—_gah—_honor is certainly commendable."

"_RAH!_ I don't see what—_RAH!—_honor has to do with it."

"Honor has _everything _to do with—_death to Wargs!—_it. _I_ did all the work. _I_ caused the diversion. _I_ got us the—_arggh!—_horse."

"And your—_ELENDIL!—_point is?"

"My—_gah!—_point is that it isn't fair."

"I'm the King. I don't _have_ to be—_aiieee!—_fair."

"You're not the—_argh—_King yet. And Kings should still be—_FOR GONDOR!—_just."

"I never said that I—_aaaarrrrraaaghhh!—_wasn't _going_ to be fair. I just said that I didn't_—DEATH!— have_ to be."

"You're not being very—_argh!_—fair right now!"

"I really don't think it's—_argh!—_that pressing an issue."

"Oh—_argh!—_but it is!"

"And why is—_argh!—_that?"

"Because—_argh!—_every time you kill an—_argh!—_enemy the blood—_argh!—_flies back and—_aargh—_hits me in the—_argh!—_face!"

"So you'd rather it if I was the—_**(censored), **that hurt—_one sitting in back getting smacked in the eyes with—_argh!—_gore?"

"In a manner of—_nrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaggggggghhhh—_speaking,—_argh!—_yes."

"Well—_HIIYAHHH!—_you'll just have to cope."

"See? It isn't—_mwahaha!—_fair."

"That's—_argh!—_too bad."

"You know, I'm beginning to have my—_take that—_doubts that this whole—_and that—_thing is even—_and that—_physically—_and that!—_possible."

"What—_argh!_—do you mean?"

"I mean that I—_argh!—_don't understand how—_argh!_—this horse is sup—_argh!—_porting two fully grown—_argh!—_and not—_argh!—_ insubstantial—_argh!—_men at one time and galloping—_argh!—_at full tilt and not buckling—_argh!—_under the strain."

"It must be—_argh!—_a very good horse."

"I'm not sure that—_argh!—_even the best horse could manage—_ARRRGGGHHH! DIE, FOUL FIEND!—_that."

"Well,—_argh!—_this one is."

"I—_argh!—_noticed."

"And—_aha!—_anyway, isn't there—_aha_ha_!—_that whole business—_ahaha_ha_!—_about time and—_ahahaha_ha_!—_space not having—_ahahahaha_ha_!—_any con—_ahaha—_gen—_ha—_it—_ha—_al—_ha_ha_!—_meaning?"

"Yes, but that—_argh!—_doesn't apply to—_nrrrgh!—_weight ratios."

"What have—_argh!—_weight ratios—_argh!—_got to do with it?"

"Well, weight—_argh!—_ratios are… hold on, wait a—_argh!—_minute!"

"_Argh!_ What is it?"

"Those are—_gah!—_MINE!"

"Wh—_argh!—_at?"

"Those—_aaieeegh!—_vambraces you're—_AAIEEEGH!—_wearing!"

"They—_argh!—_are not!"

"Yes—_argh!—_they are!"

"No, they're—_argh!—_not! Get off—_argh!—_me!"

"Give them—_argh!—_back!"

"No! They're mine! Let—_argh!_—go!"

"Nev—_argh—_er! _Argh!"_

"_Argh!"_

"_Argh!"_

"_ARGH!"_

"_ARGH!"_

"_**ARGH!"**_

"_**ARGH!"**_

"_**ARGH!"**_

"**_ARGH_**ohmy**(censored)**godsTURNLEFTTURNLEFTTURNLEFT!"

"_WHAT?"_

"TURN LEFT! **OTHER LEFT!"**

"_IT WON'T STEER!"_

"_**NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"**_

And thus did the valiant steed bearing the lords Aragorn and Boromir go careening directly over a rather large cliff.

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The first of Boromir's senses to return was that of smell.

There was a pleasant scent of resiny wood burning in the fireplace a few feet away, along with the dry odors of clean sheets and warm pillows. Sighing contentedly, Boromir hitched the coverlet more firmly around his broad shoulders, burying his face in the pillow and dimly registering the texture of the blankets and the soothing heat of their surrounding warmth as sense (3), that of touch, returned as well.

Unfortunately, along with sense (3) also came the sudden knowledge that someone was poking him very hard in the back. Before he could think of how best to react to this, the sudden reinstatement of sense (5) also caused his ears to be assaulted by a familiar voice saying "Wake up, you great lummox."

Boromir opened one eye, facilitating the restoration of sense (2), and peered groggily at Faramir, who was standing by the side of his bed with his arms crossed impatiently. "What time is it?"

"Time for _you_ to get up."

About this point, sense (4) returned as well, and Boromir could vaguely taste the vague but distinctive flavor of recent sleep lingering pleasantly somewhere in the back of his tongue. "Why?" he asked, snuggling deeper into his nest of sheets. "What do I have to do today?"

"How should _I_ know? _I_ don't have those sorts of particulars; I'm just supposed to get you up," said Faramir. When there was no response, he tugged the blanket away from Boromir sharply, wadded it up, and tossed it across the room. "Hurry up or you'll be late."

"Late?" Boromir rolled over onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head lazily.

"Late," affirmed Faramir, snatching the pillow out from beneath Boromir's head, causing it to knock against the headboard with a dull _thunk._

"My dear brother," growled Boromir, massaging his sore skull and reaching forward to seize the pillow back from Faramir, who danced nimbly out of reach, "I have all the time in the world. After all," he went on, his tone contemplative, "in this world, time and space have no con…_"_

And then something jogged at Boromir's memory.

Time. Space. Death. Arrows. Boat. Waterfall. Anduin. Knife. Blood. Gil. Grass. Horses. Rohan. Orcs. Humperdink. Trees. Wizard. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Muffins. Popcorn. "Guess who?" Wargs. Horn. Vambraces. Cliff. Cliff. _Cliff!_

"Cliff!" Boromir gasped, sitting bolt upright. "Eru, the cliff! Faramir!" He stared at his brother, wild-eyed. "Faramir, are you dead, too? Where's Mother?"

Faramir sighed and patted Boromir reassuringly on the shoulder. "You're not dead. Not this time, anyway. No, actually, you're just unconscious."

"Unconscious?" Boromir's mind reeled. "That was one hell of a cliff. How did I survive?"

Faramir threw both hands in the air. "Don't ask me, I don't have any answers!"

Boromir's eyes narrowed. "What exactly _are_ you doing here, anyway?"

"Don't know that, either. It's _your_ dream."

"My dream?" Boromir paused. "I guess it would be a dream, wouldn't it? So you're not actually here? I mean, you're a figment of my imagination? You're not Faramir?"

Faramir frowned. "Well, I'm actually not too sure about that… we have dreamt together before, after all… perhaps I _am_ here."

"Look, it's easy," said Boromir. "If you're sentient, then you're real. Are you sentient?"

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. And I said that I was, would you believe me?" Faramir grinned. "And, then again, maybe this is _my_ dream. Maybe you're just a figment of _my_ imagination."

"No, no, I'm definitely here. _I_ exist, at least."

"I would think that you'd be the last person on earth to be sure that you exist, at this point," said Faramir, rolling his eyes. "But, at any rate, it's neither here nor there. Now, are you going to get up or not?"

"How come _you_ woke me up?" muttered Boromir grumpily. "How come I couldn't have been woken up by… by twelve scantily clad Elf-maidens, or something?"

"Again, it's your dream," said Faramir, shrugging.

"I thought you just said that this was _your_ dream?"

"You know, I really have no idea. Come on, rise and shine," he added, tugging Boromir's arm. "That's enough of a lie-in for you."

"What if I don't _want_ to get up?" said Boromir, wrenching his arm away. "I'm very warm and comfortable—or at least I _was_, until you spitefully stole my covers—and I really have no desire to wake up and have to face the reality of the fact that I'm either drowning or horribly mangled or being eaten alive by some sort of aquatic beast or… or watching Aragorn snog a horse, or something."

"Oh, come now, don't be a coward. What's the very worst that could happen?"

"Other than watching Aragorn snog a horse? Well, I could die."

"Which you've done, what, three times? I imagine you're fairly used to it be now. Almost a kind of recreation for you by now, no?"

"Oh, don't be flippant, Fara," said Boromir, folding his arms. "Dying's all very well and good in theory, but imagine having to deal with Mother each and every time!"

A spasm flitted across Faramir's face. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"I'm not budging." Boromir leant back against the headboard, crossed his ankles, and sat.

Minutes passed, during which Boromir looked at Faramir and Faramir looked at Boromir and the last glowing embers of the fire crackled tentatively. There was also a vague continuous sound not unlike that of ten thousand FaraBoro shippers breathing heavily in unison and muttering that Faramir really ought to get into bed, too, before he catches cold, but this passed unheard by either party in question. Boromir in particular was preoccupied by the _other_ vague continuous sound he was beginning to hear dimly in the background, which was one of running water.

"Can you hear that?" he whispered.

"Hear what?" inquired Faramir.

"The water."

"Nope." Faramir smiled wickedly. "You must be waking up."

"No, I'm not, I'm not!" Boromir gasped, clutching the edge of the mattress as if it might anchor him more securely in his dream. "I'm still asleep!"

But the water trickled on, growing louder and louder and louder, trickling and trickling and dripping and dropping and dribbling and plinking and plunking and splashing and splunking and swishing and swirling until Boromir had to use the bathroom so badly that the eyes he hadn't realized he'd been clenching shut suddenly snapped open.

And all thoughts of seeking out a privy flew from his mind when he saw exactly what Aragorn was doing with Brego.

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Sindarin- "Get a life! Your mother looks like an Orc!"

**A/N:** I really need to stop putting self-derogatory ANs at the end of all my chapters… it almost makes it seem as I'm (_gasp) _fishing for compliments! Which is, of course (_shifty eyes) _utterly ridiculous.

Anyway, _(ahem)… _read and review.


	10. Thanks a Lot, Mr Freud

**Disclaimers**: Tolkien and I used to be drinking mates back before I got my Blue Ribbon, but we lost touch over the years. Hope he doesn't mind me borrowing some of that miscellany he used to ramble on about—the traveling midgets, the jewelry theft, and what was that one place called?—the one that was named after some bird of prey?—oh, right, Condor.

**A/n: **I apologize to all my fabulous fabulous readers for the overly long wait between updates. Don't have much of an excuse, except that I've been reading tons of Thomas Hardy, and that'll put anyone off their writing. It's like trying to draw stick figures after spending an hour in the Louvre. Or telling bathroom jokes immediately following a funeral.

_Anyway… _here we are at Chapter 10—hooray! We're now halfway through the story—or at least we would be, if I could be bothered to adhere to my outline, which I abandoned sometime during Chapter 3. Ah well.

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"I swear, it really wasn't what it looked like."

"Mm-hmmm."

"No, really, it wasn't."

"Look, I saw what happened. You don't need to explain anything to me."

"It wasn't _anything_ like that!"

"I saw tongue."

"That was _all_ Brego!"

"Mm-hmmm."

"No, really, it was!"

"You had your hand tangled in his mane!"

"I… I thought he was Arwen!"

"_What?_ You mistook a horse for your intended? How did you make _that_ leap?"

"I was half-asleep. It was a mistake any man might have made."

"I fancy her breath smells rather different."

"You'd be surprised. Arwen's morning breath is a force to be reckoned with."

"Well, how's that for a dysfunctional relationship? As soon as she's out of sight you start vilifying her. Some fiancé _you_ are."

"Well, there's no denying our relationship is… less than ideal. I mean, she refused to marry me until I become King of a massive domain… how's that supposed to make a man feel about his fundamental personal value?"

"Hmm. Explains a lot."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I heard you moan a name in the middle of your little dalliance. And it wasn't Arwen's."

"_What?_ Are you serious? I did?"

"You did."

"Whose? Éowyn's?"

"Nope."

"Galadriel's?"

"Nope."

"Fin's?"

"Ugh! Eru no!"

"Legolas's?"

"_Legolas?"_

"Er… forget I said that."

"Admittedly, he isn't exactly the most overtly masculine specimen of Elfdom, but all the same, Aragorn…"

"Well, if it wasn't Legolas, then _who?"_

"You said 'Brego', you dunce!"

"I did _not!"_

"You most certainly did."

"I mean, I might've _said_ the horse's name at one point, but I never _moaned_ it. Honestly, I was just relieved to find myself alive and with unlooked-for transport. It's completely natural."

"Mm-hmm. That's what they _all_ say."

"It's true."

"All I know is that I'm not allowing you near _any_ of my horses while you're in Gondor."

"For the last time, I… say is that a ten-thousand-strong army of Uruk-Hais marching across the plain?"

"So it would seem. And look, there's Helm's Deep."

"I sense that these two points are not entirely unconnected?"

"Probably not. Come on, let's get a move on. Slap the horse's rear and see if it'll go faster. Though you might enjoy that a bit too much…"

"Oh, shut up."

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After a triumphant and gloriously grime-ridden entry into the great fortress of Helm's Deep and a short interview with Théoden and his counselors, Boromir and Aragorn took a stroll around the ramparts with the aforementioned King, briefing soldiers and surveying the erection of slapdash defenses. Gamling trailed after them after the manner of an especially obsequious shadow, if a shadow can in any way be thought like to a burly six-foot redhead wearing full armor and carrying a large block of wood.

"I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall," said Théoden. "We will cover the causeway and the gate from above. No army has ever breached the Deeping wall, or set foot inside the Hornburg." At this, Gamling proffered the block of wood, and Théoden knocked on it sanctimoniously.

Gimli lurched onto the scene. "Thisisnorabblofmindlessorcstheseareurukhaitheirarmoristhickandtheirshields broad," he slurred, spreading his arms wide for emphasis upon the second word, overbalancing, and falling off the wall.

Théoden blinked. "Right then, I'll take that into account. At any rate, _I_ know how to defend my own keep."

There was a long pause.

"_Wood, Gamling!"_ roared Théoden, and Gamling hurriedly rushed forward, spouting a veritable wellspring of muttered apologies. After knocking on the wood again (rather more severely this time), he went on. "They will break upon this fortress like water on rock. Saruman's hordes will pillage and burn. We've seen it before. Crops can be resown, homes rebuilt. Within these walls, we will outlast them." _Knock, knock_.

"They do not come to destroy Rohan's crops or villages—they come to destroy its people!" cried Aragorn. "Down to the last child!"

"Would you like wood for that, sir?" asked Gamling.

"_No!"_

Théoden, meanwhile, latched onto Aragorn's collar and hauled him close in a confidential attitude that struck Boromir as being rather more slashy than necessary.

"What would you have me do?" the King of Rohan hissed. "Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread. If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance!"

"Send out riders, my lord," Aragorn said. "You _must_ call for aid!"

"And who will come? Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead."

"Gondor will come," interjected Boromir.

"Gondor?" sputtered Théoden with flagrant indignance. "Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gon…"

"Where was _Gondor?"_ Boromir exclaimed with no less antagonism. "Where were _you?_ Sitting comatose in _Meduseld,_ if I _recall! We_ were busy driving back the Shadow! It hasn't exactly been a cake walk for _us _either, I might add!"

"And speaking of cakes, I am absolutely _famished,"_ interceded Aragorn swiftly. "Come, Boromir, let's go inspect the provisions." Grabbing Boromir by the arm, he hastily dragged him toward the Keep, leaving a fuming Théoden to mutter the addendum, "No, we are alone" to no one in particular, knock the block of wood preemptively, and storm off.

As soon as they were out of sight, Boromir wrenched his forearm out of Aragorn's grasp vehemently. "What did you stop me for?" he seethed. "I was only just getting started!"

Aragorn rolled his eyes, casting furtive glances at passers-by, some of whom were regarding them with curiosity. "I won't have my future Steward destroying all my political alliances at a go," he whispered venomously.

"Political alliances, indeed! You call _that_ an alliance? As soon as I get home, I'm having Father declare war on Rohan; that'll show them."

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "And here I was, hoping you might eventually marry the King's niece to solidify the coalition…"

"Oh, don't try that one! Marry her yourself if it matters that much; then the two of you and Brego can do a threesome." Looking around disgustedly, Boromir spotted a supply of provisions stashed in a corner. "What's there to eat?" he asked the guard on duty.

The man handed the two of them unidentified food items wrapped in white packaging. "Rations, my lords."

Boromir removed the wrapper from his allotment and inspected the contents inquisitively. "Is that really…"

"Regulation Hostess Cakes™, my lord."

Throwing the wrapper aside, Boromir held up what was unmistakably a Twinkie, sniffed it gingerly, shrugged, and inserted it whole into his mouth. Chewing appreciatively, he turned to see Aragorn staring at his own unopened rations in unmistakable dismay.

"What's the matter, Aragorn? Don't you like Twinkies?" he said, though, through his mouthful of sugary creamed goodness, it sounded a bit closer to, "Washamadder, Arashorn? Donchu lyshwinkies?"

"I… I can't open this," said Aragorn in a broken voice.

"_Wad?"_

"I said I can't open it!" the Dúnadan snapped. "I've never been able to! Halbarad used to do it for me!"

Boromir, swallowing his Twinkie in a large convulsive gulp, spluttered, "You can't open a _Twinkie?_ Oh, for the love of Eru… look, it's very simple. Just grab the little fold in the wrapper and pull until it rips."

Aragorn gritted his teeth, gripped the plastic packaging between his fingers, and yanked until the tendons stood out in his neck, grunting from the effort. "Look, it's no use! I can't get it open!" he said finally, panting.

Boromir was more utterly nonplussed than he had ever been in his entire life, though whether his second or third life, he couldn't say. "How is it that you can track two hobbits cross-country from Parth Galen to Fangorn and you still can't undo a _wrapper?"_

Aragorn's face, already red from exertion, blushed still deeper. Turning to the guard, he asked, "Is there anything_ else_ to eat?"

"Well, Lady Éowyn made some stew…"

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"No c-c-c…cof…c…?"

"Coffee, milord?"

"Yes, that."

"No, there's no coffee. We do have ale."

"Oh, never _mind,"_ snarled Boromir, stalking away sullenly. He was beginning to wish that the Uruks would just arrive and get the battle over with; anything was better than this, trapped behind stone walls, in close quarters with a whole horde of commoners who hadn't bathed in weeks—nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing decent to eat, and _no_ coffee.

"Lord Boromir!"

Boromir turned around at the salutation, and Éowyn came bounding up, pale hair streaming behind her. "Have you seen the Lord Aragorn anywhere?" she asked breathlessly.

"Not in a few hours, I'm afraid. Is there some kind of trouble?" he asked.

Éowyn flushed. "Well, no, not really. It's rather silly, really…" She trailed off.

Boromir waited expectantly.

"Well, it's just that I've been ordered to remain in the caves with the women and children and not take part in the battle at all. I was hoping he might be able to…"

"Are you kidding? Aragorn's about as decisive as political candidate with gender identity issues. He won't be able to do a thing about it."

Éowyn sighed heavily, eyes downcast.

"Tell you what," said Boromir presently. "Why don't you talk to Legolas? Maybe he could cover for you in the caves, and you could masquerade as him during the battle."

Éowyn's face brightened. "Really? Do you think that would work?"

"_I_ sure wouldn't be able to tell you apart," said Boromir, nodding.

Éowyn frowned. "I'm not quite sure if I should thank you or hit you for that last remark."

Boromir shrugged. "Look at it this way: if you're pretending to be Legolas, Aragorn might look at you twice."

Éowyn hit him.

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Aragorn was Distraught.

He still hadn't managed to open his Hostess Cake™. Wandering onto the battlements, he surreptitiously continued to twist and tug on the wrapping, which, though much-battered from the continual abuse, remained intact. Reflecting grimly that the Twinkie was probably entirely crushed by this point, he sat down heavily on the parapet and mused. Presently, it occurred to him that he might use his sword to open the wrapper, but, reaching toward his belt, released with dismay that he'd left his own sword the armory. His daggers, meanwhile, had not been returned to him since their confiscation at Edoras. He was weaponless.

Looking around in consternation, Aragorn spotted a young lad sitting on the ramparts a few feet away, staring forlornly at the darkened horizon, a naked blade lying across his lap. He waved to attract the boy's attention and then said, "Give me your sword."

The boy's eyes widened.

There was a sound not unlike that of the ten thousand panel members responsible for the compilation of _The Code of Legitimate Humor Writing: Section 12- Naughty Innuendo_ throwing their hands in the air and storming off in a huff. This was noted by Aragorn, who was busy trying to puzzle out why this simple request had been greeted with such horror, whereupon he realized that he had been grossly misinterpreted. He chuckled in what he hoped was a kind and unassuming way. "Sorry, that came out rather wrongly… I meant your _sword._ Your _real_ sword. You know," he gestured toward the weapon, "the one in your lap."

The boy, who had appeared momentarily placated by Aragorn's words, leapt up as though scalded at this last remark.

The Dúnadan, realizing that he had only made things worse, hastily tried to make emendations. "No, no, no, that wasn't what I meant, that wasn't what I meant! I mean your _sword!_ Long, hard, pointed thing! Used for fencing! I only want it for a minute!"

The boy turned on his heel and ran away as quickly as possible, and would have left Aragorn alone to the pains of hunger and forlorn musings on the abject cruelty of Freudian slips, had he not collided directly with Boromir, who was strolling in the opposite direction.

"Woah!" said Boromir, steadying himself with a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"Anywhere, so long as it's away from _him_," the boy gasped, shooting an appalled glare in Aragorn's direction.

Boromir's eyes narrowed. "Why? What did he say to you?"

The boy told him.

"_Aragorn!"_ cried Boromir, arms akimbo as he stared at the Ranger with his mouth agape and eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hairline. "What in Eru's name has gotten _into_ you lately? First I catch you frenching Brego, and now you're propositioning young boys before a battle! Valar, if you think that as Heir to the Stewardship of Gondor I'm going to stand for this sort of…"

"That wasn't what I _meant!"_ cried Aragorn, nearly sobbing with exasperation. "I only wanted to borrow his sword! I need it to open my Twinkie!"

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers wondering aloud at whether there was any anatomical accessory for which the word "Twinkie" might be an obscene euphemism, and presently deciding that there were many.

Boromir rolled his eyes. "_Here_, you prat," he said, handing his liege a dagger, which he accepted gratefully. Boromir then turned to the boy. "Never mind him, lad, half of what he says is nonsense anyway. What is your name?"

"Háleth, son of Háma, my Lord," he replied.

Boromir stiffened. "Son of Háma?"

"Yes," Háleth replied mournfully.

"I'm sorry to hear that. How unfortunate."

"It is not so hard at present, my Lord. I am still numb to his passing. The feeling has not yet quite sunk in."

Boromir blinked. "His passing?"

Háleth looked at him quizzically. "Yes. He fell against the Wargs. Why, did you not know?"

"Er… of course I did," said Boromir hastily, sitting down on the battlement, while Háleth followed suit. "I am most sorry for your loss. I know what it is to lose a parent."

"Sometimes we used to take walks across the plains," said Háleth distantly, his eyes gazing blankly into the distance. "It would be still and silent there, with sky so wide it would almost seem ready to swallow you whole. And my father would always walk next to me, and then he'd smile at me and say…"

Boromir waited expectantly. When Háleth did not continue, he prompted, "And say?"

"'Keep off the grass.'" Háleth shrugged. "It was his way of showing affection."

"Ah."

After a long moment, Háleth spoke again in a quavering voice. "The men say that we will not last out the night. They say that it is hopeless."

Boromir watched the gathering stormclouds gradually increasing in mass and darkness contemplatively before saying, "I was in the Golden Wood awhile, you know."

Háleth's eyes widened. "You _were?"_

"Yes. And I met its Lady, the Lady Galadriel."

"You _did?"_

"Yes. She spoke to me there, within my mind. Do you know what she said?"

Háleth shook his head. "No. What did she say?"

Boromir frowned for a moment. "Well, first she said that she wanted to throw me down and shag me dead. But that was before she realized I wasn't Aragorn."

Háleth blinked.

"But do you know what she said to me _after_ that?"

Háleth was getting rather tired of this game. "No, _what?"_

"She said 'There is still hope.'"

Since there was not likely to be many opportunities for contemplative moments of silence during the upcoming battle, Boromir and Háleth went the whole hog and had another one.

"Do you believe her?" asked Háleth presently.

"Believe who?"

"Galadriel."

"Well, no."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm still alive."

"Here's your dagger back," said Aragorn, popping up at Boromir's side, at which Háleth jumped to his feet and scampered away like a frightened rabbit.

Boromir accepted it gingerly. "Why has it got cream all over it?"

There was a sound not unlike that of the screaming sirens of the Innuendo Police Force barreling down the highway at ninety kilometers per hour.

"Er… I accidentally sliced the Twinkie in half while I was opening it."

Boromir rolled his eyes. "You _are_ hopelessly inept."

Suddenly, there was some calamity from below. "We've got a casualty!" intoned a frantic voice from somewhere beneath the wall.

"Already?" said Aragorn, frowning. "Isn't that a bit premature?"

"Who is it?" called a soldier. "Check the arm."

There was a pause. "Then— "Er… _Sizzling Dwarvish Sexpot: Mm-mmm, 'Gimli' a piece of that_…?"

"That'll be Gimli," said Aragorn unnecessarily. "Is he dead?"

Another pause. "Er, no, just knocked out."

"Well, he _did_ fall off a wall, so it's only to be expected," said Aragorn, supremely unconcerned as he bit into a mangled Twinkie. "Though he'll be disappointed to miss the batEru Ilúvatar, is that what I _think_ it is?"

"What?"

"It _is!"_

"_What?"_

"Legolas is… is wearing a _helmet!"_

"Well," said Boromir, "why shouldn't he be?"

Aragorn shot him a contemptuous look. "His _hair_, Boromir. It will get _mussed_. It simply isn't _done_. Not by Legolas." He rose to his feet. "I'm going to investigate. Maybe there was something strange in the Hostess Cakes™." Throwing down his misshapen Twinkie wrapper, he strolled off purposefully, leaving Boromir to amusedly watch the interchange—from a safe distance, naturally, as he was only too familiar with the punches Aragorn could throw, and his still-stinging cheek reminded him that Éowyn was a force to be reckoned with as well.

His contentment, however, was short-lived, as a sentry came along ten seconds later, spotted the abandoned Twinkie wrapper lying at Boromir's feet, and immediately hauled him off for a short and violent briefing on Rohan's litter laws.

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**A/n:** Has anyone else ever been struck by how disturbingly Tolkien's description of _lembas_ sounds like Twinkies?

Not that Hostess paid me to say that, or anything. _(cough cough)_


	11. Och! A Battle!

**Disclaimers:** If I owned _Lord of the Rings_, both books and movies would probably have referenced the hitherto-undocumented Great Gondorian Linen Famine of 3016, and the ensuing scarcity of clothes in that realm.

**Further Disclaimers:**Yeah, betcha all wish I owned LotR _now,_ eh?

**A/n: **Though the felicitations are a bit belated,I nonetheless hope that everybody had a wonderful time celebrating the Winter Festival of their choice. I extend my heartfelt and thoroughly secular holiday greetings to all.

Boromir and Faramir would also like to lift a glass of eggnog and toast a "Happy Mettarë" to all my reviewers.

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Éowyn, standing on the walls of Helm's Deep and trying desperately to look inconspicuous, was horrified to see Lord Aragorn storming across the ramparts in her direction. Hastily trying to compose herself, she was unable to decide whether to assert a straight pose of confidence or a languid posture of nonchalance, and settled for scratching her rump contemplatively in imitation of a soldier standing immediately in front of her.

"Legolas, what are you _doing?"_ demanded Aragorn as soon as he drew near, dark brows drawn together in a frown.

Pitching her voice to an appropriately masculine timbre, Éowyn said, "Scratching my rump contemplatively?"

Aragorn stared at her as though she had gone mad.

It suddenly occurred to Éowyn that, in this particular case of male-masquerade, behaving in a more overtly mannish manner was probably working against her favor. Quickly changing tactics, she flipped her hair in the way she had sometimes seen Legolas do when affronted and said, "liek omigod woahh!1"

"Liek omigod is right!" replied Aragorn. "What's up with the helmet?" He rapped his knuckles sharply against the crown of her helm.

_He touched my helmet!_ she thought blissfully, her mind reverberating with glee as the metal helmet vibrated against her skull. Gathering her wits once more, she replied, "Well, what's wrong with helmets?"

"What's wrong with _helmets?"_ cried Aragorn disbelievingly. "Elves don't _wear_ helmets! Ever! You've told me so yourself a dozen times!" He peered at Éowyn suspiciously through the helmet's round eye apertures, and she inwardly blessed her blue eyes. "Unless they've got zits or something. You haven't got zits, have you? I thought you'd been out of puberty for, what, two thousand years?"

Éowyn was spared a reply as a fanfare of clear horns suddenly echoed from the rock face, and a mass of dark figures marched into view. Attention distracted, Aragorn muttered, "That is no Orc-horn!" and sprang away down the stairway to investigate, Éowyn trailing in his wake.

Presently, a cry of "_Open the gates!"_ was heard, and into the fortress of Helm's Deep, bearing arms and standards, marched a small army of…

"Elves in helmets. Fancy that," said Éowyn.

"Shut up," muttered Aragorn.

One of the Elves—apparently the leader, and, of the party, the only one without a helmet—stepped forward. Noticing that the width of his shoulders was somewhere in proportion to two of Legolas's whole bodies, she wondered if perhaps a few of her previous conceptions about Elves were unfounded.

The broad-shouldered Elf turned to Théoden, who appeared reasonably stupefied. "I bring word from Agent Smith of the Matrix," he said. "Uruks are a virus."

Everyone stared.

The Elf blinked. "Wow, I did it again, didn't I? I'm sorry… it's just that straying so far out of canon does peculiar things to my memory retention abilities. May I start over?"

"Please," replied Théoden shakily.

"Thank you," replied the Elf. "Ahem… I bring word from… Elrond…. Elrond of… Riverdale? No, Elrond of Riverden. Blast… it's something to do with rivers, I'm sure… Riverdam? Riverhell? No, no, I've got it, Riverdell! I bring word from Elrond of Riverdell!"

"It's _Riven_dell, but never mind," said Théoden. "Pray continue."

"Right. An alliance once existed between Elves and Hobbits… or was it Elves and Ents?"

"How about Elves and Men?" suggested Éowyn.

The Elf saluted her. "Precisely, _mellon-nîn._ And we have come to dishonor…"

"_Honor,"_ hissed the Elf-warrior directly behind him.

"…_honor_ that allegiance." The broad Elf beamed. "Swell, huh?"

Grinning as well, Aragorn darted forward to envelope the Elf in an affectionate embrace. "_Mae Govennan!"_ he said. The Elf appeared momentarily shocked, but quickly warmed to the hug, causing any admiration Éowyn might have entertained toward him to figuratively fly out of the proverbial window as she fought not to strangle him on the spot.

Finally breaking apart, Aragorn clapped him on the back and declared, "You are _most_ welcome."

"Thank you?" Still appearing somewhat confused at having been unexpectedly cuddled by a man of dubious hygienic status, the Elf's eyes roved the grimy array of Rohirrim that stood grimly before him, his expression lightening as he finally spotted Éowyn. "_Le suilon!"_ he said cheerily._ "Manen le?_"

Éowyn froze. The Elf was eyeing her expectantly, apparently waiting for a reply, and now Aragorn was turning around also, his expression curious. "_Le mae, Legolas?_"

Losing her head entirely, she squeaked, "¿Que pasa?"

It was the Elf's turn to stare. "What did he say?" he said in the Common Tongue.

"I know not," replied Aragorn. "He's been acting strangely all afternoon."

"Has he…" The Elf leaned forward, squinting. "Has he _crimped_ his hair?"

"And his nails!" cried Aragorn, snatching Éowyn's hand, who, despite the awkwardness of the situation, was forced to restrain a shiver at the contact. "They aren't manicured!" He dropped the hand. "This isn't Legolas!"

The Elf stepped forward. "Let's find out who this 'Wood-elf' _really_ is!" he said, and before Éowyn could react, he pulled off the helmet.

"_Éowyn!"_ cried the entirety of Helm's Deep in unison.

She stood before them, unmasked and defiant. "**_(Censored)!_ **And I would have gotten away with it, too, if hadn't been for you meddling men… and your stupid Elf!"

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand people bursting into a rousing chorus of "Scooby Dooby Doo, Where Are You?", followed by a sound not unlike that of ten thousand more people shrieking in abject horror and quickly uniting in a noisy rendition _"Aníron"_ in order to drown them out.

Théoden, wandering onto the scene, spotted her. "Éowyn! Whatever are you _doing_ up here?" He grabbed her elbow. "Come on! Back to the caves with you!"

"But _Uncle…"_ she cried as she was steered away.

"Come now, Éowyn, be reasonable," he said firmly. "You can't just throw on a disguise as paltry as a man's cloak and helmet and hope to deceive anyone." A pause. "_Wood, Gamling!"_ Looking around, he saw that Gamling was nowhere to be found. "Ah well, never mind. I'm sure it won't make a difference." Another pause. "Say, Éowyn, is there any way that the phrase 'knock on wood' could be made into a crude pun?"

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_THE CODE OF LEGITIMATE HUMOR WRITING, SECTION 12, ARTICLE 10_

_Absolutely not._

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Boromir, having been finally (and somewhat violently) ejected from the secret EPA briefing room concealed in the backwaters of the Glittering Caves, where he had been forced to watch continuous and highly disquieting video coverage of sad-eyed puppies and kittens languishing in animal shelters and to recite the Litter Code no less than sixty-nine and a half times in succession, made his way back to the caves where the women and children were based and was met with a most peculiar sight.

Legolas, naked as the day he was born, was sitting in the midst of a circle of stoic-looking Rohirric women, all of whom seemed completely unphased by his current state of undress. Perched atop a large rock, he appeared to be giving an address of some sort to the assembly, and Boromir, approaching tentatively, shortly heard the nature of it.

"No, no, it's _left_ strand over _middle_ strand, and then _right_ strand over middle strand!" cried the Elf irritably. "Honestly, can't you humans do _anything?"_

The woman in question merely grunted in acknowledgement and continued as before.

"Legolas, what on _Arda_ are you doing?" demanded Boromir. "Where are your _clothes?"_

"I'm teaching these poor sods to do their hair properly. And never fear, my clothes reside in the capable hands of Lady Éowyn, where I'm sure they will come to no harm."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," said Boromir flatly. "Just because _you_ can keep your garments perpetually pristine in the middle of a fully-fledged battle doesn't mean the rest of us can. Haven't you got anything else to wear?"

"Well, Éowyn offered to lend me her gown," said Legolas, "but it made my hips look too wide."

Boromir wisely chose to let this statement pass without further comment.

Looking up from his circle of pupils, Legolas spotted a tall figure striding in their direction. "Talk of the Devil! Here she comes now, and in a high temper, I think."

Éowyn strode over to the rock, kicking aside commoners in her wake, sparing a venomous glare for Boromir before turning to Legolas with a curt, "Come on, Elf-boy, you're wanted upstairs," and a jerk of the thumb in the direction of the passage.

"But I've only just started!" he said indignantly. "We haven't even gotten to French braiding yet!"

"Yes, well, life's tough," barked Éowyn as she stripped off Legolas's bow and quiver. "Here are your weapons back." She thrust a bundle into his hands. "And your clothes."

When Legolas had scampered away, she glowered at Boromir again, who backed away slowly. "You've got blood on your nose," she said sharply.

"I know," he said, prodding it gingerly. "I'm lucky it isn't broken. Your Environmental Protection Bureau certainly is a gung-ho lot."

"Oh, cry me a river," harrumphed the shieldmaiden as she plopped down on the seat recently vacated by Legolas.

"Ah. Plan didn't work, I see?"

"Yes. A fat lot of help _you_ are, I might add." She fiddled with a crimped lock listlessly. "What was the point of introducing my character arc if I'm just going to be disregarded before anything interesting happens?"

"Hey, you've hijacked the first thousand words of a chapter of _my_ story and you're _still_ not satisfied?" said Boromir. "Stop moping already! You're going to slay the Witch-king and get a sponge-bath from Aragorn and have ridiculously romantic lines spouted to you by my equally ridiculously good-looking brother, so get _over_ it!"

Éowyn blinked. "Where in Arda did _that_ come from?"

Boromir shrugged. "Funny, I don't know. Must be another one of those Húrin things."

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Though rain poured and thunder raged and lightning flashed and a massive army of stuntmen in Orc suits were loping through the valley, an unusual calm had fallen over the fortress of Helm's Deep.

Stately ranks of Elven archers and less-than-stately lines of Rohannic warriors stood side-by-side, faces set in expressions of bleak determination. Shortly, however, the wind changed direction, and expressions of bleak determination turned to expressions of squinted pain as they were pelted in the face by a gallon's worth of bullet-sharp raindrops.

And still the rain poured and the thunder raged and the lightning flashed and the wind howled and the Orcs continued to lope doggedly down the valley and the cameras panned constantly between random close-ups and wide shots of the valley and occasional images of uncomfortable-looking women lurking in the caves.

And then, suddenly, there was silence.

The Orcs, ten yards from the Deeping wall, stopped loping, staring up at the ramparts. Those on the ramparts stared down at the Orcs. No one moved or spoke.

And as they stood there, one army on one side of the wall and one standing on the other, staring and saying nothing, there was a moment in which, abruptly, inexplicably, the whole idea seemed rather stupid.

But then one of the Uruks let out a great roar, and the others, following suit, began to howl and screech and pound the butts of their spears against the sodden earth; and in the midst of the blood-curdling calamity, everyone remembered that this was War and that War makes a really smashing movie, and felt better.

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"_Fight!_ No, _fine!_ _File! Five! Find!"_

Aragorn sighed. "That's 'fire', mate, and I think you should let _me_ direct the archers from now on, Haldir."

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"Boromir!" cried Théoden, perched conveniently out-of-range from the raging battle. "Come over here when you've got a moment!"

"I'm—" _Clash._ "—a—" _Crack. _"—bit—" _Smash._ "—busy—" _Whoosh. _"—just—" _Bang. _"—now."

"Yes, well, I'll be patient."

Grumbling, Boromir dispatched the combative Orc in a sweeping sword-stroke and trudged back to the ever-tolerant King with an exasperated, _"What?"_

"I've just thought of a new strategy," said Théoden, "and I want you to spread it among the ranks. I feel that it will turn the tide of this skirmish."

Boromir's eyes widened. "Really? Let's hear it."

"Right." The King of the Mark cleared his throat preliminarily. "_Ahem._ Everyone aims to kill."

A pause.

"_What?"_

"I said: everyone aims to kill."

"_And?"_

"That's it."

"_That's it? _What the hell kind of strategy is _that?"_

"No, wait, hear me out. Listen: if everyone aims to kill, _ergo_, every enemy we aim for will die. _Ergo,_ if we aim for every enemy, every enemy will die. _Ergo,_ every enemy will die. _Ergo,_ there will be no more enemy. _Ergo,_ we win. It's all logic, you see."

Boromir pressed a bloodied hand to his cranium as though willing it to belong to someone else. "I've changed my mind; I'm not going to declare war on Rohan. I'll just build a wall around it and put rat poison in its water supply."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Your plan is brilliant. Absolutely inspired. I'll go spread the word."

"You do that." Théoden smiled grimly at the carnage around him. "Our victory is guaranteed! _Ha!_ Is this it? Is this all you can conjure, Saruman? _Ha!"_

Boromir whirled around. "You fool! Don't say—"

_KA**BOOM**._

"—that."

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"Aragorn!" cried Legolas, limping over to where the Dúnadan was engaged in mortal combat. "Have you got any athelas?"

"Why?" asked Aragorn worriedly, or as worriedly as one can ask in reference to another's well-being while engaged in a deadly duel with a mutant killing machine at least twice one's own size. "Are you—"_ Crash. _"—injured?"

"Yes. It's my…" A wince. "…leg."

"Your—" _Splorsh. _"—knee? Is it—" _Bang. _"—life-threatening? Is it—" _Swish, duck, crash. _"—infected?"

"I'm not sure. Here, I'll show you." Legolas began to slowly and painfully roll his leggings, while Aragorn parried his foe in a wide circle so as to be at vantage to see it.

"What, you mean that huge gash—" _Smack._ "—on your shin?"

"No, that's from shaving. _This_ is what I'm worried about." Legolas prodded his patella gingerly.

"What,—" _Swoosh. _"_—_ your knee? It looks like you've—" _Smash. "—_skinned it."

"Yes. I was trying to slide down the stairs on a tea-tray a few minutes ago and I fell… it hurts so bad, Aragorn!" Large blue eyes welled up with tears.

"Honestly, Legolas, I've got more—" _Wham._ "—pressing things to do than—" _Bam._ "—waste my athelas on—" _Clatter. _"—scrapes."

Legolas pouted. "Well, couldn't you at least kiss it or something?"

"N—" _Bang._ "—o!"

"Well!" Legolas cried indignantly. "I never! You really are the most insufferable Man, Aragorn…"

"A'll kiss it with ma axe, me bonny wee Elf!" came a gruff voice from somewhere around Legolas's knees. Legolas looked down and saw a Dwarf peering up at him.

"Who are _you?"_

"Och! A'm Gimli!" When Legolas raised an eyebrow, the Dwarf sighed. "They decided that PerpetuallySmashed!Gimli wasn't fulfilling his designated office as Diminutive Instrument of Comic Relief™ and decided to replace him with OutrageouslyScottish!Gimli. Och," he added as an afterthought.

"And what does being 'outrageously Scottish' entail?"

"It means 'a hafter speak inna relly affected deealect and use wards lyke 'bonny', 'wee', and 'laddie' at graytest convaynience. 'A also hafter axclaim 'Och!' a lawt."

"Do you have to wear a kilt, too?"

"Gawd waylling, no."

"Or play bagpipes?"

"Och, no! Tho' 'a mae be awbliged to sayng a ballad or two."

"I sense—" _Clatter. _"—that this—" _Clash. _"—will be a painful experience—"_ Crash. _"—for us all."

"Shut _up_, Aragorn, no one was speaking to you!" cried Legolas. "I'm sick of the sight of you! I'm going to go talk to Boromir! He'd make a better King than you, anyway!"

"You—" _Slash. _"—do that."

"Och, layver's tiffs are so haerd ter watch," remarked Gimli as the Elf flounced off.

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"Retime? Retell? Retrace? Retouch? Re… re… retreat? Retreat! That's it, retreat! _RETREA—argh!_ _Ouch_, dammit, there was no need to split my skull open afterwards, I was as good as dead anyway!"

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In the bowels of Helm's Deep, a great many industrious warriors were singing uplifting numbers from _Les Miserables _and working speedily to erect a barricade of reinforcements against the entry of the Keep.

"Say, Boromir, there's someone knocking at the door!"

Boromir, busily helping to blockade the gates against the forcible onslaught of the enemy battering ram, found ample energy to roll his eyes and make the deeply anachronistic but highly appropriate remark of, "No shit Sherlock."

"No, not _that_ door, silly!" said Legolas. "I meant the _back _door."

Boromir frowned. "The _back_ door? This place has a _back_ door? What happened to 'there is no way out of that fortress; Théoden is walking into a trap' or whatever jargon Mithrandir was feeding us?"

"Well, it's not _exactly_ a back door; I guess it's more of a _side_ door. It leads to a little ledge in the rock face, not far from the bridge." Legolas patted the portal in question.

Boromir's eyes widened. "Isn't that something of a security hazard?"

"Oh, I doubt it, I don't imagine anyone knows it's here… Boromir, would you mind telling all those horrid Men to pipe down? I can't hear a word the visitors are saying!"

"The _visitors?"_

"Yes, the _visitors_, you imbecile! Didn't I just tell you they were knocking? And we're being quite rude in keeping them out in the rain, I think."

"I thought you _just_ said that no one knew the door was…"

"What was that?" Legolas pressed his ear to the door, listening. "Oh, Boromir, they're Girl Scouts!"

"_What?"_

"And they're selling cookies! How sweet! That's just the thing to cheer a body up in the middle of a life-or-death mêlée… Boromir, would you rather have Tagalongs or Samoas?"

"Legolas, don't you _dare_ open that door!"

"Yes, I think Tagalongs, too… and of course I'm going to open the door, how else am I going to give them the check? I bet they look _adorable_ in their little Scout uniforms…"

Boromir set down the two-by-four he had been preparing to nail to the barricade and moved toward the Elf threateningly. "Legolas, I'm warning you…"

"Oh, don't be a wet blanket," said Legolas, and opened the door.

Two point three-five seconds later, Legolas was lying flat on his back, being trampled underfoot as a massive battalion of duplicitous Orcs (none of whom ostensibly bore any Merit badges) swept through the doorway. All Boromir could do was think that he was, once again, obliged to defend someone he'd much rather see dead against an obscene number of foes, and acknowledged this sentiment with a flourish of a his sword and a cry of, "For **(censored)** Gondor!"

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**A/n:** Well, I didn't get my holiday Húrin fic up in time, but there's always next year, eh? In recompense, I'm writing another short fic to put up in its place, so keep an eye out if you're interested…


	12. Allegation, Agitation, Alliteration

**Disclaimer:** _Roses are red, Violets are blue, I sure don't own this, And neither do you._

**Further Disclaimers:** I think I missed my calling… I was obviously meant to be a poet.

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_(To any fellow scholars who might be following the progress of this, er, highly informative saga, the historian would like to issue a sincere and heartfelt apology in regards to the recent hiatus. Contrary to popular belief, the aforementioned historian has _not_ lost her primary typing digits in a dubious accident involving a bad-tempered Bichon Frise and the ugly side of a plastic picnic knife. A peek at a few of her favorite forums, where she has been busily posting lascivious remarks about Sean Bean and David Wenham, will alleviate any suspicions in this quarter._

_The real reason behind the protracted delay was a particularly messy and largely unfathomable court case between Aragorn and Boromir—which will doubtless go down in the history of fandom as "Grimy vs. Undead"—over whether Boromir, being dead, had any right to appear in fanfic at all. Boromir argued that his claim to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was protected by law and that he'd appear in fanfic if he bloody well wanted to, to which Aragorn replied that dead men didn't _have_ any rights and that this wasn't America anyway, was it. To which Boromir replied that he wasn't _quite_ dead, was he, and that okay, it wasn't America, but he _had_ tried to steal the Declaration of Independence in an alternate reality. To which Aragorn replied that that was neither here nor there, and that Boromir was most definitely dead. To which Boromir replied that he was standing there talking, wasn't he, you **(censored)** moron, to which Aragorn replied that he might just be hallucinating, and that you weren't supposed to use profanities in a court of law. To which Boromir replied that if he really _was_ dead, then the court of law might as well go **(censored)** itself._

_This was followed by various and sundry arguments concerning whether Aragorn had any right to bring a suit against a dead man, and whether Boromir, being dead, should be allowed to testify. Then there was a still more lengthy debate about whether Boromir was even dead at all, which resulted in Aragorn conceding that, okay, maybe Boromir was alive _now_, but he had most definitely _been_ dead at one point or another. Aragorn then went on to state that, having been instrumental in the resurrection of Boromir after each of his subsequent expirations, he ought to have sole jurisdiction over whether Boromir was allowed to live or die. Denethor and Faramir then interjected, saying that, as nearest of kin, _they_ ought to be the ones who controlled Boromir's fate. To which Boromir said that it was _his_ mortality, wasn't it, and he'd bloody well decide when to die all on his own. To which Aragorn said shut up, dead men can't talk. To which Boromir said that he thought they'd long since decided that he _wasn't_ dead, to which Aragorn said that that was ridiculous, because if Boromir _wasn't_ dead, then what was this case all about, anyway? To which Boromir replied that he hardly knew anymore, and urged the scribe to consult the minutes. The scribe duly informed Aragorn that he had, in fact, admitted that Boromir was alive earlier in the proceedings. Aragorn ordered the scribe to be beheaded, and Boromir pointed out that he wasn't even King yet, and didn't have the right to behead anyone. To which the jury said for the love of Eru, let's not get talking about rights again._

_The case continued in this vein for some three hundred-thirty and a quarter hours (notwithstanding brief recesses for drinks at the Green Dragon), during which Aragorn and Boromir argued vociferously and Aragorn and Boromir's lawyers, who had not yet slipped a word in edgewise since the start of the trial, exchanged politely awkward glances. Finally, when the debate turned to the subject of what the meaning of the word 'is' is, the jury voted unanimously for the premature adjournment of the case, as the whole thing had long since descended into the realm of the Ridiculous. They then pointed out, quite reasonably, that, as Boromir and Aragorn were _both_ fictional, and did not, in the most abject sense of reality, even exist, mortality hardly even entered into the situation, and added that, all technicalities aside, fanfiction itself wasn't even quite legal anyway. Boromir and Aragorn were then fined ten cents and issued a sedative apiece, after which they both awoke with no memory of the incident, and the story, mercifully, could continue as planned._

_Again, apologies for any inconveniences caused. We will now return to Chapter 12 of our scheduled programming—where the plot, not unlike chocolate pudding at room temperature, has begun to thicken.)_

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"…A-and then w-when I was tw-twelve… D…daddy gave me a… a… a-a_nother_ c-clothes hanger for my b-b-birthday! And—" (sniffle) "—and then I a-asked him, 'D-dad-ddy, why—" (sob) "—why d-did you give me a-another clothes h-hanger?' And th-then he said, 'B-bec-cause I-I wish you'd g-go hang yourself and d-do us all a f-favor!' A-and th-then he _laughed_, l-like he th-thought it was f-funny!"

Privately, Gandalf thought that this was rather funny himself, but he kept his expression as somberly benevolent as possible as he handed another monogrammed handkerchief to his weeping protégé. "That was quite wrong of him, Faramir, and very traumatic for you, I'm sure. But you did tell me all of this three hours ago."

Hiccupping and wiping his reddened eyes furiously, Faramir frowned. "I-I _did_, didn't I?" He paused. "D-did I tell you about the t-time when he k-kicked…"

"Your puppy? Yes, that was thirty minutes ago," interjected Gandalf patiently.

Faramir shook his head disbelievingly. "_Ai_, Mithrandir, what's come over me these days? I'm just—just so _miserable_ all the time! And—and I'm always crying and not knowing why—and, and feeling grumpy, and I _never_ used to feel grumpy…"

"I wouldn't sweat it, mate," put in Éomer, crossly yet sympathetically. "My sister does the same thing every month, and she's more of a man than any of us."

Faramir ignored him. "Mithrandir, am I d-dying?"

Gandalf frowned, stroking his silvered whiskers contemplatively. "I should say not. There are a couple of possible explanations for your recent change in mood, but the one I think most likely is that you, Faramir," and here Gandalf paused to clear his throat, "are trapped between parallel dimensions."

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand people humming the _Twilight Zone_ theme music in various discordant keys.

"P-parallel dimensions?" Faramir stared at Gandalf as though he had just sprouted several additional heads—which, to Faramir's tear-blurred vision, it very nearly appeared that he had. "W-what the h-hell does th-_that_ mean?"

Gandalf sighed. "Well, it's a bit hard to explain, really," he said, and, when Faramir continued to gaze at him expectantly, sighed again and continued. "Suffice to say that, in this universe of ours, there are multiple Middle-earths. Infinite Middle-earths. And each of them is a bit different. _This_ Middle-earth would appear to be a rather unlikely intersection between several different possibilities, and you, Faramir, are feeling the ill effects, in that your personality—and later, possibly your appearance—has begun to… to _change."_

Faramir trembled. "You mean… you mean I really _am_ changing into another person?"

"No, not quite," Gandalf hastened to reassure him. "You're not changing into another _person. _You're changing into another _Faramir._ Does that make sense?"

Faramir paused, blinking contemplatively. "No."

"I told you this was complicated," grumbled Gandalf, struggling to think of the best way to illustrate the situation to an emotionally distraught Faramir. "Well, think about it this way… I used to be Gandalf the Grey, correct?"

"Right."

"And now I'm Gandalf the White. I'm still Gandalf, but not the _same_ Gandalf."

"But you _are _the same Gandalf!" objected Faramir. "You're just wearing a different sodding color!"

"Yes, well, the change is a little less… _demonstrative_ in my case than in yours."

"Y-you can s-say that a-again!" cried Faramir, close to sobbing once more. "W-what am I g-going to _do?_ Am I g-going to be at it l-like a leaky f-faucet for the r-rest of my life?"

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_THE CODE OF LEGITIMATE HUMOR WRITING, SECTION 12, ARTICLE 11_

_And don't even get us _started_ on leaky faucets, you bloody perverts._

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"No, no, I think not," said Gandalf. "This is just a period of adjustment. For a while, you may find yourself a little—er, _high-strung_—as you begin to conform to your new character patterns, but in all likelihood it will settle down given some time. I suspect that the new Faramir will be somewhat more emotionally sensitive than the old, but other than that you won't have much to worry about." He patted Faramir's tear-moistened hand gingerly. "You're not the first to have to undergo this kind of metamorphosis. What color was Boromir's hair the last time you saw him?"

Faramir gave him a strange look. "Black, of course."

"Well, he's blonde now. I imagine he's undergone some personality changes as well—perhaps none as drastic as yours, but…"

"… Boromir's _blonde?"_

"Yes."

Faramir blinked. "I can't picture that."

Gandalf quirked his bushy eyebrows. "Hair color is the least of Boromir's worries—he's lucky enough just to be alive at this point, or something like it." He immediately regretted this statement as Faramir's eyes filled with tears again and his lower lip began to quiver. "But don't worry! Boromir was perfectly healthy when last I saw him." _Well, as healthy as a mortally wounded Starbucks addict who's just been brought back from the dead and subsequently gotten into a fistfight with the future King of Gondor could ever be under the circumstances, anyway,_ the wizard thought inwardly, but kept this tidbit to himself "We'll see him when we get to Helm's Deep—I imagine he's helping to defend the fortress as we speak."

"Speaking of which, " interrupted Éomer crossly, riding up alongside Gandalf, "oughtn't we to be moving just a bit faster? Considering we're supposed to reach Helm's Deep by first light on the fifth day, or whatever other poetical nonsense you promised them…"

"My dear boy, don't worry yourself on that score," remonstrated Gandalf. "Remember, in this world, time and space have no congenital meaning. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Mithrandir," said Faramir hesitantly. "You did say that there were a couple of possible explanations for my erratic behavior."

"Yes, I did."

"What's the other one?"

"Well… you could always be pregnant."

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"You ordered the Tagalongs?"

Boromir, sword brandished aloft, paused mid-war cry and stared at the rat-faced Orc in abject astonishment. "_What_ did you say?"

"The Tagalongs. You ordered them?" repeated the Orc patiently, while the battalion behind him looked on curiously. One of them had seized Legolas by the collar and hauled him to his feet, dusting him off expertly. "Sorry about your friend there. We got a bit overexcited coming through the door—we get so few customers these days. No one trusts door-to-door merchants anymore. I know three encyclopedia salesmen got killed in the last week alone."

"But we need the Merit points," added another Orc. "Not to mention the money. Our troop leader says we can go on a camping trip in the Misty Mountains if we raise enough."

Boromir gaped. "Do you… do you mean to say you're _actually_ Girl Scouts?"

The first Orc frowned. "Of course we're Girl Scouts—we're selling Girl Scout Cookies™, aren't we?" He paused frowning. "Why do you ask?"

"Well…" Boromir began, unsure of whether there was any polite way to phrase the point. "Well, you're… you're Orcs, aren't you?" He inserted a genteel cough for good measure.

"Yes, we're Orcs. Your point?"

"Well, er… aren't Orcs more accustomed to things like, well, pillaging and hacking and burning and, oh, I don't know, committing random acts of horribly gratuitous violence?"

"Some are," replied the Orc. "Then again, so are a great many humans. Would you have _us_ judge_ you_ by _their_ standards?"

Boromir frowned, not quite liking where this conversation was going. "Well, no. But that's an entirely different case."

"How so?"

"Well… you're Orcs."

The Orc threw his clawed hands in the air and groaned in palpable irritation. "Well, isn't _that_ fine! I'd always heard that humans were bigoted, self-satisfied creatures, but I never dreamt that they'd be so…"

"Look, no, hold on!" cried Boromir, dimly wondering why he was going out of his way to avoid offending an Orc. Perhaps it was because his finer sensibilities were touched. Perhaps it was because he was surrounded by a horde of Orcs armed with cutlasses and claiming to be Girl Scouts. The whole situation was far too confusing for him to be quite sure. "I didn't mean it in a bad way, or anything. It's just… surprising, is all. I mean, I didn't even know that your species _had_ any females."

"And so _what_ if we're not girls?" said the Orc heatedly, while the others murmured in agreement. "Are we to be tied down to traditionalist gender restrictions as well as species-related prejudices? Who's to say that gender isn't just an illusion propagated by the machinations of a delusional society?"

"Here, here!" interjected Legolas warmly.

"Er… I think we'd better hurry up and give you your check," said Boromir hastily.

"Legolas, could you…?"

The Elf frowned. "Could I what?"

Boromir grabbed him by the back of the jerkin and hauled him aside. "Hurry up and write the check so that they'll leave. It's bad enough being under siege from a multitude of blood-crazed Uruk psychopaths without having Queer Theory spouted at me all day, too," he hissed.

"Queer Theory is a reputable anti-essentialist study!" objected Legolas.

"Yes, but it's terribly anachronistic."

"Haven't we just about done fussing about anachronisms already?"

"No," said Boromir stubbornly.

"Then we have a problem."

"What? Why?"

"Because checkbooks are anachronistic. I can't pay them."

Boromir rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, you're _terribly_ clever, Legolas. Just write the damned check, would you?"

"But I thought you just said—"

"Forget what I just said!"

"You just said for me to write the check!"

"Not _that_, you imbecile! Forget what I said about the anachronisms!"

"But I thought you said we weren't done fussing about them!"

"I just told you to forget that I said that!"

"No, you told me to forget what you said about the anachronisms, not what you said about _fussing_ about the anachronisms!"

"It's the same bloody thing!"

"No, it isn't!"

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't!"

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't!"

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" asked the head Orc-cum-Girl-Scout politely.

"No, we're just sorting out our finances," snapped Boromir curtly, before turning back to Legolas. "Look, I don't trust this lot. The sooner we get them cleared off, the better, and the sooner you write the check, the sooner they'll leave. Now, would you just pay for the cookies so that we can leave off this strange narrative tangent and get back to killing things like we're supposed to?"

"You do realize that you are aiding and abetting an anachronistic activity?"

"To hell with anachronisms already! Write the check!"

"I can't."

"_What?"_

"I said I can't."

"Why? What is it _now?"_

"I haven't got a checkbook. I was planning on making _you_ pay."

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Any number of strange things had happened to Aragorn, son of Arathorn, in the midst of battle, but when Legolas came dashing over the battlements, braids streaming behind him, and, panting, cried, "Hurry, Aragorn, there are Girl Scouts holding Boromir hostage and they said they won't let him go until we pay for our cookies", he still found it in him to do a double-take.

"_What_ did you just say?"

"You heard me!" gasped the Elf. "Come on, we've got hurry; they've got a nasty look about them." He grabbed Aragorn's wrist and tugged at it frantically, but Aragorn remained solidly in place, his brain sluggishly and wordlessly struggling to digest the information that had just been dealt him. His right eyebrow, meanwhile, had taken refuge in his hairline, and his jaw was wandering somewhere around the vicinity of his knees, but these concerns were secondary.

"_What_ did you just say?"

"I said we've got to pay them! Have you got any money?"

The jaw snapped to attention, and the eyebrow migrated northward another improbable two inches. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the West, Bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, the Eflstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor! What do you mean, 'Have you got any _money_?' The entire treasury of Gondor is mine by rights!"

"Valar, let's not get talking about rights again," groaned Legolas. "I meant have you got any money _with you?_ They want paying now. Besides, don't you owe the larger part of your treasury to the Lórien tabloids?"

Aragorn reddened. "I thought we agreed never to speak of that again."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

"And I still maintain that those photographs were bogus."

"Of course," agreed Legolas, and, in a move of rare intelligence, restrained himself from commenting on the anachronistic nature of Aragorn's remark, thus sparing the general reading public from another page and a half of tedious bickering.

"Suffice to say," the Dúnadan went on presently, "I do also have some money on my person at present."

"Good," said Legolas, pawing at Aragorn's wrist again. "Let's go."

Again, Aragorn stood immobile. "Remind me again what this is for?"

"We're rescuing Boromir."

Aragorn stiffened. "Oh, no. Oh no no no no _no_."

"What?"

"I see what this is about. And the answer is _no_."

"Oh, come now, Aragorn, don't be silly…"

"_No._ I refuse. I will not. Never again. No_."_

"There will be cookies involved."

"Say that again?"

"Cookies. Girl Scout Cookies™. Tagalongs, to be precise."

Aragorn paused, mentally weighing the situation. Boromir, cookies. Cookies, Boromir. Big-nosed, bigheaded, blockheaded, bumbling, bleeding Boromir. Peanut-buttery, chocolaty, processed-sugary, deliciously decadent cookies. It was certainly a confusing, convoluted, complex, and somewhat alliterative conundrum.

"Damn that Húrin, but I'd kill for some Tagalongs. Let's go."

However, it was not to Be. Moments later, tearing across the battlements in pursuit of glory and glucose, Aragorn and Legolas were accosted by Gamling.

"Théoden King requests your presence in the Keep so that he can treat you to a fatalistic existential treatise of his own composition in the hopes of creating an atmosphere of bleakness so that the contrasting energy enables the final denouement of this scene to seem all the more intense."

"_Pardon?_" said Aragorn.

"In other words, I have reason to believe we are affecting a retreat."

"Oh, bugger."

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They found Théoden in the inner sanctum of Helm's Deep, along with a great many men working to erect yet another barricade, and Gimli, who was lustily singing a rendition of "Auld Lang Syne" in keeping with his new-found patriotism.

The King met them with desolate countenance. "I've decided that all resistance is futile since we're all going to die, anyway."

"Can I mention that I totally called that one?" put in Legolas smugly.

"_We twa hae ruuun aa-about the braaaes, and pou'd the gowans fiiiiiine…"_

"For the Valar's sake, Gimli, stop that infernal droning," barked Aragorn, before returning his attention to Théoden. "What brought on _this_ resolution?"

"_But we've wander'd monie a weary fit sin aaaauld laaaaang syyyne…"_

"Well, I was stabbed in the shoulder at the gate."

"And…?"

"_We twa hae paaaaidl'd in the-e buurn, frae morning sun till diiiiiine…."_

"And it _hurt!_ I mean, I was wearing armor and everything, but I've probably got a bruise the size of the Westfold, let me tell you…" He trailed off forlornly. "So much death. What can men do against such reckless hate?"

"Put their heads between their knees and kiss their asses goodbye?" suggested Legolas.

"_But seas between us braid hae roar'd since aaaaaauld laaaaaang syyyyne…."_

"Ride out with me," said Aragorn quietly, or as quietly as was possible with Gimli bellowing about "auld acquaintance" and "pint-strowp" in the background.

Théoden blushed. "Oh, Aragorn…"

"Not like _that_, you wanker!" cried Aragorn sharply. "I meant on _horses!"_

Théoden frowned. "Well, you _could_ do it on horses, I suppose…"

Aragorn groaned and dragged a bloodied hand through his grimy hair in exasperation. "Oh, for the _love_ of Elendil! I'm trying to suggest a _suicide charge_ here! Can't we leave off those damned Freudian slips already? We just had a whole chapter devoted to them, of which _I_ was the brunt, if I recall!"

"_And there's a haa-aaand my trusty fiiiiiiere…"_

"Look, Aragorn, we've already banned anachronisms from this fic; if we ban Freudian slips, too, it'll be no fun at all," the Elf pointed out sensibly.

"But isn't Freud an anachronism?" put in Théoden.

"True—I hadn't thought of that."

"_And giie's a hand of thiiiiiiine…."_

"Look, can we get back to the suicide charge?" appealed Isildur's heir.

"For wrath and ruin?" asked Théoden.

"For Rohan. Have Gimli go blow the horn of Helm Hammerhand—it'll shut up his singing, for one thing."

"_And we-e'll tak a right guid-willie waaaught…"_

"Yes," agreed Théoden. "Yes! Let the horn of Helm Hammerhand sound in the Deep!" He turned to Aragorn. "Let this be the hour when we draw sword together!"

"I thought we were done with Freudian slips?" objected Legolas. He was pointedly ignored.

"Now for wrath, now for ruin, and the red dawn! _Forth Eorlingas!"_ cried the King, and away they galloped, on horses which had mysteriously materialized for the purpose.

"_For Auld Lang Syne!"_ sang out Gimli, and sounded a great blast on the horn.

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers snickering like seven-year-old boys, because the resulting sound really was uncommonly reminiscent of flatulence.

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**A/n: **Eru above, if that chapter doesn't score a 10 on the Richter scale for weirdness. I promise we'll finally be done with Helm's Deep next installment. In the meantime, I intend to return to my regular once-a-month update schedule, if I've still got any readers left… :-)


	13. Trick or Treat

**Disclaimers:** If I owned LotR, I would sell the copyright to some lucrative corporation for an obscene amount of money, which I would then use to buy expensive cameras, tracking devices, and round-trip plane tickets in order to stalk Sean Bean between movie sets. The fact that I am instead here, sitting in front of my Macintosh, writing this disclaimer, suggests that this is not the case.

**A/n:** And the madness continues…

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Faramir was, to put it the bluntest possible terms, Highly Disgruntled.

There were two concurrent but distinct reasons for this irritation. The first reason was that he had just found out from his childhood mentor that a complicated hashing of parallel universes and chemical imbalances was wreaking potentially permanent havoc in his neatly patterned character arc. The second was that, after fighting tooth and nail alongside Éomer and the other Rohirrim to reclaim the fortress of Helm's Deep—which was no mean feat in a physical sense, considering the sheer number of foes, or in an emotional sense, considering that he was obliged to weep miserably every time he decapitated something—he had gone dashing round a bend in the corridor and discovered his elder brother, sitting complacently on a pile of freshly killed Orcs and calmly devouring what appeared to be a box of cookies.

In that moment, Faramir of Gondor was nearly struck dumb with the sheer injustice of it all. He had spent the last five days worrying himself to distraction about Boromir's safety, and now Boromir had the audacity to stand before him and eat cookies as if nothing were the matter at all?

"You **(censored)** bastard! If you _ever_ put me through that again, I'll kill you myself!"

Boromir's face, which had lit up at the sight of Faramir, rearranged itself into an amused smirk. "Nice to see you, too, little brother."

Faramir folded his arms across his chest and glared at him murderously. "Don't try to distract me with pleasantries! You know exactly what you've done, and it's completely inexcusable!"

Boromir licked some chocolate from his fingertips and frowned. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. Kindly humor me with an explanation." The frown deepened. "Wait a minute… what are you doing here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be in Ithilien?"

Faramir thought it prudent to ignore the latter part of this speech, instead latching onto the first half with a vengeance. "_Humor_ you? Oh, I'm far past humoring the likes of you! Once we get back to Minas Tirith, I'm going to have you locked up! I mean it! You're not going to so much as _stir_ without my knowing it! And if I _ever_ have another prophetic dream about you dying, then you sure as _hell_ had better be dead!"

"Actually, there's a bit of a story behind that—"

_"Don't interrupt me!_ Do you have any _idea_ the kind of _stress_ you've put me through? Do you have any _idea_ how _worried_ I was? Do you have any _idea_ what _Father_ would have _done_ to me if you'd _died?_ Because of course it would have been _my_ fault! It's _always_ been my fault! Ever since that time when I was seven and you raided Father's secret stash of 'Gondorgirlz Gone Wild' magazines and _I_ got blamed for it…"

"Look, I've apologized for that a mill—"

_"I'm not finished yet!_ And what about Gondor? What the hell was Gondor supposed to do if you were dead?"

"Faramir—"

"And what about _me?_ I don't want to be Steward! I don't want to be Captain-General! All I want is a pack of hounds and a beach house in Dol Amroth! _IS THAT REALLY SO MUCH TO ASK?"_

"Of course n—"

"Oh, Boromir, I'm so glad you're here!" cried Faramir, and promptly burst into tears.

If Faramir was Highly Disgruntled, then Boromir was now, reciprocally, Scared Out Of His Wits. "Dear Eru, what have I done?" he muttered, rising squelchily from his grisly seat and approaching his sobbing brother warily, as one might approach a wounded animal in the forest when one is not sure if it is docile and in need of assistance, or merely shamming while it waits for an opportune moment to let out a feral scream of attack and leap for one's throat. Tentatively, he opened his arms, at which Faramir fell heavily against his shoulder and proceeded to drench it in a manner reminiscent of the Rauros-falls in one of its more volatile moods.

When the storm had subsided somewhat, Boromir cleared his throat and offered Faramir a cookie.

"Yes, please," replied Faramir in a muffled voice, accepting the box with a small hiccup and inserting most of the contents of the first sleeve into his mouth without preamble. Boromir watched him chew forlornly for several minutes before hesitantly remarking, "You seem… er… well, _different."_

Faramir sniffled. "So do you. How long has your hair been that color?"

"Oh, that?" said Boromir, blowing a strand of it out of his eyes with a dismissive exhale. "I don't quite know how it happened. It started to look a little strange after our victory at Osgiliath, and by the time my horse and I had forded the Greyflood at Tharbad it was completely blonde. I'm not entirely sure what caused it. Oh, and my nose swelled up like a _balloon_ for a couple of days after I crossed through Rohan."

"Mithrandir says it's something to do with parallel universes colliding."

"What on Arda is that supposed to mean?"

Faramir shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea. These cookies are good. Where did you get them?"

"Oh, a few Girl Scouts came through here a while ago."

Faramir frowned quizzically. "Girl Scouts? What in the Valar's name were Girl Scouts doing here?" He glanced around. "Where are they now?"

"Oh, they were Orcs. I killed them. They were being overly aggressive about the check."

"You _killed_ them?" gasped Faramir, eyes widening. "Were they civilians?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

"Boromir, you can't _do_ that! It's in direct violation of the Geneva Convention!"

Now Boromir frowned. "What's the Geneva Convention? I've never even heard of it."

Faramir sighed. "Well, that's alright—I don't think anyone else has, either."

There was a slightly awkward pause while Faramir fished for crumbs in the bottom of the box, after which Boromir ventured, "So, these parallel universes… are they responsible for your… for your… well, for, well, you know…" He gesticulated in what was evidently intended to be a meaningful fashion.

"My precarious emotional state?" supplied Faramir helpfully.

"Yes, that."

"Supposedly. Mithrandir says it might calm down, given time, but he's not entirely sure. In the meantime, he's given me some magical pills to help." He reached into his pocket and produced some white tablets. "He says they're called 'Pamprin Multi-Symptom'."

Boromir plucked the pills from Faramir's outstretched hand. "A word to the wise, Faramir: never, _ever_ accept medicinal aids from Mithrandir," he said sternly, and defenestrated them.

It was at that moment that Legolas Greenleaf chose to prance onto the scene. "Stop! Stop!" he cried. "That's enough. We're calling off the chapter."

"Why?" demanded Boromir. "It was going so well!"

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers muttering that they rather thought it contained certain passages of more than usually revolting sentimentality, but that it wasn't really their place to complain.

The Elf tossed his head irritably. "Haven't you noticed what number it is?"

"No, I've lost count. Why, what does that matter?"

Legolas glanced around shiftily, and then leaned forward conspiratorially to whisper, "It's Chapter 13!" He leaned back once more, eyebrows raised meaningfully, eyeing the two Húrins expectantly. They stared back at him, nonplussed.

"So?" said Faramir presently.

"'So?" _'So?'"_ squealed Legolas. "It's Chapter 13! And, as everybody knows, 13 is an unlucky number—_the_ unlucky number! This chapter is star-crossed! If it continues, dire fates will come upon us all!"

"Somehow that threat no longer inspires nearly as much terror as it used," commented Boromir.

"And anyway, I don't think Boromir and I have anything to worry about," added Faramir. "We are, after all, from Gondor, a land quite unsubtly rife with 7's—which, as everybody knows, is the holiest and luckiest number of the lot."

"Well, that's all very well for _you!"_ cried Legolas. "What about the _rest_ of us? You may have diplomatic numerical immunity, but supposing an anvil falls from the sky and onto _my_ head because _you've_ left a hat on the bed or something?"

"I don't think it works like that."

"Well, I don't see why we should take any chances!"

"Listen up!" interposed Boromir. "This is _my_ fanfic! Mine! My own! It's got _my_ name in the title, _my_ name in the summary, and _my_ name on top of the principal characters list! And if _I_ say that we're having a Chapter 13, then we're having a Chapter 13! End of discussion!"

"But—"

"No buts!" bellowed Boromir. "I'm starting to get sick of all these people trying to commandeer my story! You know, there were _four_ scenes in the last chapter, and I was only in _one_ of them! I call that Being Shortchanged!"

"Actually, you were in _two_ scenes, if you count the courtr—" began Legolas.

"Dear Eru, _don't_ bring that up again," hissed Faramir. "But Boromir's right—this is a matter entirely up to his jurisdiction. I, for one, am completely in favor of having a Chapter 13. After all, _The Lord of the Rings_ in many ways relies intrinsically on the thematic element of fate versus choice. This could make for an interesting literary exercise."

There was a long pause in which both Boromir and Legolas stared at Faramir as though he had gone completely mad.

He shrugged. "I'm just saying."

Legolas gave a flippant _tsk._ "Whatever, Vladimir—"

"That's Faramir."

"Faramir—close enough. All I'm saying is that if I _do_ happen to break my compact mirror today, I'm going to hold you personally responsible."

"Feel free to do that."

"Oh, and by the way." Legolas leaned forward slyly once more. "You really ought to ask for your money back. That dye job is simply _terrible."_ He smirked prettily and flounced off again.

Faramir blinked. "Whatever was _that_ about?"

Boromir, meanwhile, was peering contemplatively at Faramir's scalp. "He's right. Your roots are a completely different color from the rest of your hair. Mine did that, too, while it was changing."

"Well, what color are my roots?"

Boromir squinted. "Looks like you're going to be a red-head, little brother."

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When Boromir had managed to calm Faramir down for the second time—a process that resulted in the consumption of three more boxes of Tagalongs, in addition to six Regulation Hostess Cakes™—they wandered out onto the ramparts for some fresh air. Then, gazing out over the gently swaying forest of Huorns from beneath the shade of a discarded siege ladder, they discussed what course of action they ought to next take.

"I think that we ought to return to Minas Tirith," said Faramir. "The troops' morale, when last I was there, was lower than I have ever known it. The White City is weak while its warriors are prey to such misgivings. Your homecoming would be exactly the boost they require."

"Yes, but I can't go back just yet," countered Boromir. "I don't trust that oaf Aragorn as far as I could throw him—figuratively, of course; literally, I think I could throw him quite far, if the right mood possessed me."

"Your point being?"

"My point being that someone has to stay and keep an eye on his movements, lest he attempt anything untoward."

"Who is this Aragorn bloke, anyway?"

Boromir explained. We will not bother to transcribe the explanation, as we are all very well acquainted with the lineage and circumstances of Aragorn, and, moreover, the explanation provided by Boromir was somewhat more rife with words of a four-lettered nature than would be quite acceptable in a story of this caliber, even if properly censored. Suffice to say, Faramir replied thus:

"Oh. Oh. I see. You're quite right. We mustn't let him out of our sight. We'll have to stay here."

_"I'll_ have to stay here," amended Boromir, "odious though the prospect may be. _You,_ in the meantime, must return home, to bring news of my whereabouts to Father." Boromir paused. "He did send you to find me, didn't he?"

Faramir colored and stared fixedly at his well-worn boots. "Well, not ex_act_ly…"

Boromir's brow darkened. "Faramir…" he began, warningly.

"I had a vision after I heard your horn, and… and I decided to come look for you myself," stammered Faramir.

Alarm bells went off in Boromir's brain; it was the first time he'd ever heard Faramir stammer. "With the Steward's permission, of course?"

"Erm…"

"Dear Eru," said Boromir slowly, "at least tell me you delegated someone to fill your post at Henneth Annûn."

"Well, I left a note for Anborn."

"You left a note for… Faramir, do you know what this is _called?"_

"Brotherly devotion?"

_"Desertion._ I wouldn't be surprised if there's already a…"

"… sizeable price on my head back at the White City. Yes, that thought's occurred to me as well." Faramir glanced at him meaningfully. "This wasn't my fault."

Boromir buried his face in his hands. "I know it wasn't, but… Valar, I hope this parallel universe business isn't permanent. It would be terrible if I ended up being the more sensible of the two of us." He straightened once more. "Well, it's clear that you can't go back to Minas Tirith, not just now, and certainly not until I've smoothed things over with Father." He sighed. "_I'll_ go back to Gondor. _You_ can stay and babysit Aragorn."

_"What?"_ exclaimed Faramir. "Boromir, if you _think_ I'm going to let you out of my sight for one bloody minute, you've got another thing coming."

"I'm touched," said Boromir sardonically. He was; everyone else had been so unconcerned about his mortality of late. "But this is Necessity. This is Life. This is Duty."

Faramir's lower lip trembled.

Boromir groaned. "Oh, for the love of Arda, _don't_ start crying again!"

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When Boromir had managed to calm Faramir down for the third time—this time with the aid of a method they had used since childhood, involving the telling of lighthearted tales in which their father was devoured by a pack of Wargs, and an additional Regulation Hostess Cake™—they returned indoors to the Keep, where Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Théoden, Éomer, Erkenbrand, Gamling, and four other captains were having a last lunch before their departure for Isengard. They were spread around a tablecloth on the floor, all the wooden tables having been used in the barricade. Théoden beckoned to Boromir and Faramir to join them, and they settled down between Legolas and Gamling, ever eager for the prospect of more food.

"It's a terrible tragedy, really; I can't seem to find my block of wood anywhere," said Théoden. "Gamling appears to have lost it somewhere in the battle. And with all the wooden tables and doors blasted to smithereens, I don't know what I'll use to knock on anymore. Incidentally, I've been having this strange sense that I'm going to die a horrible death in the near future. Have any of you had that lately?"

There was a long and terribly awkward silence, which Boromir broke by clearing his throat and, casting his eyes around the makeshift table, saying, "Where is the Lady Éowyn and the other women and children?"

Théoden frowned. "You know, I've been wondering about that myself. Does anyone know where they are?"

"Didn't you send them off down the mountain pass during the battle?" said Aragorn to Gamling.

Gamling frowned. "Yes."

"Well, did you send anyone after them to bring them _back_ once we'd won?"

"Er… no."

"Well, there's no point in going after them just yet. This saves us all their nagging for a bit, at any rate," said Théoden cheerily.

"Please pass the salt," requested Éomer crossly.

Faramir and Gamling reached for the saltshaker at the same moment, and the collision of their hands knocked it over, spilling salt all over the tablecloth. "Oops," they said simultaneously. _"Jinx!"_

"By the by," said Boromir presently. "I have an announcement to make. I won't be accompanying your party for the inspection of Isengard, Théoden King. Gondor lies on the Enemy's doorstep, and she has the greater need of me." He spoke in deliberately even tones, occasionally casting surreptitious glances in Faramir's direction; mercifully, it seemed that his brother was managing to repress his crying reflexes admirably for the time being.

"You mean you're _leaving?"_ cried Aragorn ecstatically.

_"Och!"_ cried Gimli. "I moost sayng a ballad of celebraetion!"

"That won't be necessary," said Aragorn hastily. "When will you be going?"

"Momentarily. However," Boromir continued, "I am leaving my younger brother Faramir among you as my representative. Faramir is the finest tactician in Gondor, my Lord," he added to Théoden. "I'm sure he'll be an asset to Rohan in its onslaught against Mordor."

"Well, maybe he'll be able to repair some of the diplomatic china the rest of his house has smashed, then," said Aragorn snidely.

"With any luck," said Boromir airily. "Well, I must be off." He rose to his feet, dusting crumbs from his surcoat. Legolas promptly let out an earth-shattering squeal.

_"Aiiee!_ There are thirteen of us! When thirteen people eat together, the first to leave the table is always the first to die!"

Boromir rolled his eyes. "I quake in my boots at the very prospect," he said flatly, and stalked out of the room, kicking a dark-colored stray cat out of the way as he went.

Aragorn sighed smugly and reached across the tablecloth for a soup tureen. "Well, this chapter turned out to be rather lucky after all!" he said merrily, and promptly spilled a cascade of Éowyn's scalding-hot stew straight into his lap.

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**A/n:** If you don't review, you'll have seven years of bad luck. Do you really want to take that risk?


	14. Subterfudge

**Disclaimers:** To quote from Shakespeare- "_I owneth not 'Lord of the Rings', Nor any of those characters which pertaineth therein, Horatio"._ Yes, that really _is_ from Hamlet. Look it up.

**A/n:** Hmmm…. judging by my chapterly hit counter and barring some highly enthusiastic rereading on the part of the reviewers, several hundred of you are in for seven very nasty years indeed. If you are one such individual and wish to save yourself from an ignominious fate, four-leaf clovers, rainbow-striped rabbit's foot keychains, and other such auspicious memorabilia are, for a limited time only, available for purchase from yours truly. All proceeds will go toward my ongoing and shockingly underfunded Quest For World Domination.

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"Aragorn? Aragorn? Aragorn love, everyone's getting ready to leave and Gamling is trying to make us some snacks to take with us, because the diners on that side of the Isen are a bit dodgy and we probably won't have any time to stop, anyway, what with the battle for Middle-earth being about to begin and that sort of thing, but there's no point in trying to initiate peaceable diplomatic dialogues with deposed servants of the Dark Lord on an empty stomach, you know—hence the snacks—and so Gamling wanted me to ask you what kind of mustard you'd like on your sandwich, because Gamling was a bit silly and made Grimbold do all the grocery shopping, forgetting that Grimbold has a severe case of Obsessive-Compulsive Bargain-Shopping Disorder—a real medical condition, and very tragic, I'm told—and he became so overwhelmed the condiments aisle that he bought four hundred different brands of mustard, and Gamling isn't sure which one you'd prefer him to—_oh."_

Legolas, who had been gamboling gaily down the stone corridor and calling as he went, finally reached the threshold of Aragorn's makeshift quarters and stopped dead. Isildur's heir was standing in a shadowy corner of the room with his back to the door and his trousers around his knees, apparently engaged in activities of a highly furtive nature, and had additionally just emitted a sound that, to Legolas's elven-keen ears, sounded uncommonly like a groan.

"Oh," repeated Legolas stupidly. "Sorry. I didn't realize you were—busy."

Aragorn cast the Elf a rueful glare over his shoulder. "This," he said firmly, "is not what it looks like."

Legolas glanced pointedly at Aragorn's leggings, which were now around his ankles, in what could only be termed as a highly skeptical manner. "I see."

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of—I'm putting athelas on my burns."

"Is that what they're calling it now?"

"Oh, shut up!" barked Aragorn bad-temperedly. "Look, I just spilled—"

"Congratulations."

Aragorn growled in frustration. "Would you let me _finish_—"

"With pleasure. No one's stopping you."

"Oh, come—"

"Thanks, but I'll leave that to you."

"Shutupshutup_SHUTUP!"_ cried Aragorn in a tone that might very well have been called a Screech (insofar as any person whose voice possesses such an unaffectedly nasal timbre as Aragorn's can be said to Screech). "Why is it that _EVERYTHING_ I say gets misconstrued? _WHY?_ I've just dumped nearly an entire pot's worth of obscenely hot stew onto an _incredibly_ sensitive region of my anatomy! Does it _LOOK_ like I'm having _FUN_ to _YOU?"_

Legolas was chastened. "I'm sorry, Aragorn," he said timidly. "So you're really putting athelas on your burns?"

Aragorn sighed through gritted teeth. "Yes."

"Well, isn't _that_ fine!" exclaimed the Elf, his irritation mounting once more. "You wouldn't let me have the tiniest pinch of athelas for _my_ injured knee, but you'll waste it on that pathetically singed sausage of yours?!"

"This is no trivial matter!" growled Aragorn. "The continuance of the line of Isildur_ and_ the future kingship depends on the full functioning of my sausage areas!"

"It looks like Gondor is in some trouble, then!"

There was a long moment during which Aragorn looked murderously at Legolas and Legolas looked defiantly at Aragorn and the last embers of the dying fire in the grate crackled tentatively. There was also a vague, continuous sound not unlike that of ten thousand readers whimpering for Aragorn to please, _please_ pull his trousers back up, but this, tragically, passed unheard by either party in question.

Presently, Legolas broke the silence. "My lavender-scented hand lotion doubles as a burn salve, you know."

Aragorn's face lit up with hope. "Really?"

"Maybe, if you'd deigned to let me borrow some athelas back on the battlements, I'd feel compelled to lend it to you now. As it is, however…" Legolas shrugged his shoulders airily.

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Oh, _fine!_ If I put some athelas on your knee, will you give me the **(censored)**salve?"

"Perhaps," said Legolas, "you ought to say please."

"Hell if I'll say 'please' to you!"

Legolas lifted an eyebrow. "Dear me," he said delicately. "It doesn't sound like you want that salve very much at all! Well, I hope you enjoy the ride to Isengard. It promises to be a bumpy one."

There was a pause, followed by a sullen, muttered, "Please."

"See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"Just shut up and give me the lotion."

"Athelas first."

Aragorn sighed. "Fine. Sit."

Legolas promptly seated himself on a discarded packing crate, and Aragorn, resignedly, knelt in front of him. Fumbling with his herb pouch, he snapped a cursory, "Roll up your leggings, will you?" to his patient.

"Roll up my leggings?!" repeated Legolas, scandalized to the point of horror. "But they'll wrinkle!"

"Well, then take the **(censored)** leggings off! And be quick about it—I haven't got all day!"

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0**

"_Och!_ Aragarn, ay've bin sent ter ask yer wot kynd o' mayonayse ye'd lyke on yer sayndwich! Gamling bouwght this spaecial kynd o' 'low-fat' brand and 'e saeys yer bownd ter perfare it since yer so straect on yer exercaese raegimen, bot aye say it looks awfaelly soospect; ye naever know wot myght bae in—_oh."_

Gimli, who had been lumbering laboriously down the stone corridor and calling as he went, reached the threshold of Aragorn's makeshift quarters and stopped dead. Isildur's heir, his pants still around his ankles, was kneeling in the middle of the room and rather conspicuously between Legolas's legs, apparently engaged in activities of a less-than-furtive nature, and had additionally just emitted a sound that, to Gimli's Dwarven-keen ears, sounded uncommonly like "take the **(censored) **leggings off, and be quick about it, I haven't got all day".

"Oh," he repeated, dully. "Saerry. Aye daydn't raelize ye were—engaeged."

Legolas cast a rueful glance at Gimli from over Aragorn's head. "This," he said primly, "is _not_ what it looks like."

"Though I _am_ engaged," put in Aragorn. "But not to Legolas. To Éowyn. Arwen. Brego. One of them."

"Aye sae."

"Right now, he's just putting athelas on my injured knee," clarified Legolas.

"Is that wot thaey're callin' it now? Aye thowt that kynd o' thaeng was usually refaerred to as 'blowin' the Harn of Gondar'," said Gimli with a frown.

"Ugh, who'd want to blow _that?"_ spat Aragorn disdainfully. "Especially not after Boromir's had his mouth all over it."

There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers reacting suddenly to the graphic mental imagery produced by the preceding sentence.

"Speaking of Boromir, however," Aragorn went on, "odious though that prospect may be—Gimli, you might want to pull up a chair. The three of us need to have a little chat."

"Abowt wot?" asked Gimli, settling down on a nearby barrel and balancing his battleaxe easily across his knees.

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "About _Boromir_, you idiot; isn't that what I just said?"

"Is there a reason why you've just sliced my knee open, by the way?" inquired Legolas curiously.

"Just making the Incision. Standard procedure."

"Well, as long as you don't let the blood seep into my shoes. You wouldn't believe how much hair-flipping I had to do while I was haggling price over these. What were you saying about Boromir?"

"As you all know," said Aragorn, wiping a stray dribble of blood from Legolas's shin with the cuff of his sleeve, "I am the legitimate heir the kingship of the united kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. And, as you all know, Boromir, apparently a sour grape and a sore loser just like his father Steward, is eager to prevent me from claiming my rightful inheritance. Now, I want to stress to the two of you that the personal benefits to yourselves in the event of my ascension of the throne will be far superior to anything you can expect out of Boromir. Legolas, you'll get a three-hundred acre lakeside property in Ithilien and unlimited free spa dates in Dol Amroth. Gimli, you'll get prime stock options in the Moria-based _mithril _trade market, once I conquer the Misty Mountains, and all the pint-strowp your heart desires. But I need to be assured of your full support in all matters relating to the Húrins."

"Do the spa dates come with free seaweed wraps?" asked Legolas.

"And piña coladas while you wait."

"I'm in," declared the Elf. "How about you, Dwarf?"

"That depaends. Aye want a paenthouse in the Glitteraeng Caeves. Can ye get mae one?"

"Well, Helm's Deep and other Rohirric possessions are outside my jurisdiction," said Aragorn, "but I can probably wrangle it. I was a captain in Thengel's army back when Théoden was in nappies, and I have some rather embarrassing photographs of him in the bathtub. I think I might manage to make suitable leverage out of them."

"Waell, then ye ken count on mae suppowrt."

"Good," replied Aragorn, beaming as he sprinkled Legolas's knee with athelas. "Now, as far as Vladimir is concerned..."

"Apparently his name is Faramir, actually."

"Yes, Faramir, that one. Now, I know Boromir's cooked up some excuse about leaving him behind for 'diplomatic purposes'," said Aragorn, "but it's obvious, of course, that he's really here to spy on _me. _This is a precarious business, you know, and we have to address the threat that Faramir might pose to our interests. Indeed, we may have to resort to extreme... diplomatic measures... to get Faramir out of the picture."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," said Legolas decisively.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you say that?"

"Because Faramir has a very obvious Fraternal Hyperinferiority Complex, common in small, nuclear families where one child is clearly favored over another," replied Legolas knowledgeably. "Whatever Faramir's conscious loyalties may be, down inside he's probably got a deep-seated resentment of his elder brother that undoubtedly leads to torturous psychological conflicts. If we can tap into that latent jealousy, then we can easily win him over to our side."

"Really?"

"Sure. Lure Faramir into an isolated, neutral environment... serve a few glasses of wine, maybe some dinner... bring up the Fellowship and the Quest, enlarging on Boromir's part in it... and soon enough he'll be disparaging his brother's good name like there's no tomorrow."

"But that's brilliant!" cried Aragorn, slicing open Legolas's knee again in his elation. "Boromir might _think_ that Faramir was spying on _us_, but really, we'd be using _Faramir_ to spy on _him!_ It's foolproof!"

"Unlaes Faeramir decaeded to spy on oos wael praetending to spy on Boromir wael praetending to spy on oos. Och," remarked Gimli.

Aragorn ignored him. "Where's Faramir now? Has anyone seen him since lunch?"

"Last I heard, he was going outside to get a breath of fresh air," replied Legolas. "I haven't seen him since. I can't move my leg, incidentally."

"I may have severed a tendon. Don't worry, I can still fix it."

"See that you do. These are the legs that won me 'Miss Greenwood 3017' last year."

"That's a piece of information I could have happily died having never known."

"Always glad to be of service."

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0**

While Aragorn was busily in the throes of garnering support for his political campaign, his chief political archrival was busily in the throes of traveling back to his home city. In this latter endeavor, several rather pressing Problems had already manifested themselves. Of these pressing Problems, five were key.

1. The Starbucks that Boromir had MapQuested before setting out turned out to be in a completely different location than the one specified in the directions

2. The Starbucks that Boromir had MapQuested before setting out turned out to be almost ten miles from the location specified in the directions

3. The Starbucks that Boromir had MapQuested before setting out turned out to have been burned down during the devastation of the Westfold, and all that remained of the establishment when Boromir arrived on the site was a charred pile of rubble

4. Charred piles of rubble, it so transpired, did not serve frappucinos, and,

5. All of Boromir's wounds had started bleeding again.

After several strenuous hours' worth of travel, Boromir began to notice that he was losing sensation in his outer extremities—due to coffee deprivation or blood loss, he wasn't really sure which—and decided that it was probably time he took a short rest. Finding a suitable boulder, he sat down heavily, shading his eyes with one hand and peering out across the plains dazedly. The sun was unusually oppressive today, and he was sure there hadn't been a breath of fresh wind in more than an hour. At least the softly rustling branches of a nearby bush offered him some shield against the blazing sunlight.

It suddenly occurred to Boromir that bushes very rarely rustle of their own volition, and that there was no wind. These two facts in conjunction with one another had rather disturbing implications, and Boromir leapt up from the boulder promptly, drawing his sword with a wince as he did so. This had to be the only **(censored)** bush for five miles, and there just _had_ to be someone hiding it. Boromir rolled his eyes. Maybe he should have taken Legolas's warnings about bad luck with less skepticism.

"Alright, who's there?" he croaked.

The bush stopped rustling.

Boromir frowned. "Look, I _know_ you're there. You've been caught. There's no use in pretending."

Silence.

Boromir sighed through gritted teeth. "Okay, here's the deal—if you stand up very, very slowly and show yourself, I may be open to negotiations. Otherwise, I'm going to have to hack up that bush with my sword, and that's going to be very ugly for y—"

"Thinking about hacking up that bush with your sword, are we?" came a voice from somewhere behind him.

Boromir whirled around and found himself face-to-face with Rohan's Environmental Protection Agency Crack Crime Squad. _Dear Eru, not again!_

"Are you aware that that bush is the only one of its species left in Middle-earth?" said the Rohirrim at the head of the group, who Boromir recognized as being the one who had picked him up for littering in Helm's Deep only two days before.

"No, I wasn't," replied Boromir tersely. "And I'm not usually the type to go cutting up plant life at random, you know, but it so happens that there's someone hiding in—"

"Are you Boromir of Gondor?" cut in the squad leader.

Boromir sighed. "Yes. Unfortunately."

"Do you have any ID?"

"Oh, dear Valar—for the last time, my 'Steward's Favorite Son' card is in Rivendell. But I have the Horn of Gondor," he added, holding it aloft explanatorily. "Isn't that good enough as proof of identity?"

"We _have_ heard quite a lot of things about that Horn," said one of the other EPA guerillas, somewhat suggestively.

"Well, if you're Boromir of Gondor," said the squad leader gruffly, "then answer me this: did you, or did you not, kick a dark-colored stray cat at the fortress of Helm's Deep today at 1300 hours, Standard Edoras Time?"

Boromir gulped. "Yes. Maybe. I don't know."

"You do realize that the kicking of cats, stray or otherwise, qualifies as Animal Abuse?"

"But it was for symbolic literary purposes."

"That's no excuse!" said the squad leader sharply. "I'm afraid we're going to have to take you into custody."

_"Again?"_ gasped Boromir. "Now, look, I don't have time for this! I've got a city to travel to and a kingdom to defend and a Shadow to defeat and a political usurpation to circumvent, not to mention that I really _am_ bleeding all over the place, so if we could maybe work out some kind of arr—"

"Should've thought of that one before you decided to go around kicking cats, shouldn't you?" interrupted the head guerilla pitilessly. "We are prepared to use force if necessary."

"Now, see here—"

"_ERU ABOVE!"_ cried Faramir, leaping out of the bush behind him. "There's a poacher with a fur coat and leather boots and an AK-47 chasing down a pregnant Warg with a broken leg while driving a radioactive garbage truck with illegal exhaust-emission rates! And they just went that way!" He pointed frantically in the opposite direction.

With a patter of stampeding feet and a cloud of dust, Rohan's Environmental Protection Agency Crack Crime Squad was gone, leaving behind several dozen still-smoldering cigarette butts in their wake. Faramir smiled smugly. "Another point for me, I think. My diversions are _always_ the very best. That one's a classic—saved Osgiliath four times, you know. Who would've thought the Haradrim were so environmentally conscious? Goodness, Boromir, you look a bit green," he added, concerned. "Do you think you might want to sit down again?"

"Yes, I think I might," said Boromir weakly, and collapsed to the ground.

"_Boromir!"_ cried Faramir, dashing forward hurriedly. He grabbed Boromir by the shoulders and turned him over, but he remained limp and unresponsive. Faramir panicked. He could feel all the tell-tale signs beginning: tingling nose, smarting eyes, trembling lip—"I am _NOT_ going to start crying again, goddammit!" he hissed out loud. He shook Boromir mercilessly. "Don't you _DARE_, Boromir! If you up and die on me _now_, I swear I will rip off your **(censored) (censored) **and shove it up your **(censored) (censored) (censored)**with a **(censored) (censored)** and a **(censored)**, so help me Eru! Wake up!"

There was a tense moment, and then Boromir's eyes fluttered open. "You called me back from the dead, little brother," he said, his voice weak with exhaustion and sheer wonderment.

Faramir sniffled fiercely. "That's the power of Love™."

"Actually, I think it had more to do with the fact that you threatened to rip off my **(censored)(censored) **with a **(censored)**."

"Ah, well. Same thing."

Boromir sat up slowly and groaned. "Well, now that we've gotten the obligatory small talk out of the way, Faramir, would you care to explain exactly _why_ you happened to be hiding in that bush"—he gestured toward the shrub in question—"and not back in Helm's Deep, where I _expressly_ told you to stay? Is there a component of this new 'parallel-universes' disorder of yours that makes it physically _impossible_ for you to do what you're told?"

"Well, I would have stayed," said Faramir defensively, "except I was worried about you."

"Worried?" cried Boromir incredulously. "Worried? About _me?_ Faramir, I'm a grown man! I don't need looking after! I have everything completely under control!"

Faramir gave him a Look. "I see."

"Well, alright, just now was—well, you caught me at one of my more awkward moments," conceded Boromir, "but that's no reason for you to disobey my orders. I may be your brother, but I'm still Captain-General of Gondor's armies—and, as one of her Captains, if _I_ tell you to stay in Rohan, then you had bloody well _stay_ in _Rohan."_

"Boromir, you're mortally wounded in three places!" snapped Faramir. "I'm not about to let you go gallivanting across Rohan by yourself, whatever you may say about it! Supposing I had been an enemy, then? I managed to track you across the plains with no cover for _three hours_ without your noticing it!"

"You're a Ranger! You're about three thousand times better at tracking than any of Sauron's rabble! It's not the same thing!"

"Boromir, how do you suppose I tracked you?" demanded Faramir.

"My scent? Look, I don't know and I don't see why it matters!"

"I tracked you," said Faramir, "by following the vultures that are currently circling over your head."

Boromir gave a forced laugh. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. There aren't any vultures circling over my head." His smile faded. "Are there?"

Faramir responded with another Look.

Boromir looked up very, very, very slowly, and was promptly struck in the nose by a falling grenade of vulture feces.

"Okay, I see your point," grumbled Boromir, accepting the monogrammed handkerchief that Faramir offered him and using it to wipe his face. "Well, what do you propose we do, then? I'm clearly not up to traveling all the way to Minas Tirith by myself, but I can't take _you_ with me, because Father will kill you. And there's still the matter of Aragorn."

"Look, don't worry about Aragorn," said Faramir dismissively. "I have that whole situation in hand."

"How so?"

"It's complicated, and I haven't got time to explain it all just now, but, suffice to say, I'm monitoring his movements very carefully," replied Faramir with the kind of determined ambiguity that brooks no further argument. "Anyway, Aragorn is the least of our worries at this point. The real trouble will be getting to Minas Tirith. But even that I don't think will be so very difficult as you anticipate. Think about it, Boromir: if you, the long-absent, long-favored elder son, mosey back into Minas Tirith with three mortal wounds and news of the Ring of Power, what's the likelihood, do you suppose, that Father will even notice I'm with you?"

Boromir paused, considering. It was a fairly valid point, he had to admit. "That's still a rather enormous assumption to be banking on, Faramir. I won't risk it."

"Well, then tell him I left Ithilien on your orders. You're the Captain-General, after all, Boromir—I'm _always_ supposed to follow your orders, aren't I?"

"He won't fall for it."

"He will. He believes everything you say."

"He didn't believe the one about the jelly crumpet when I was eight."

"That was because you had jelly on your face."

"Well, you might have _told_ me!"

"Look, Boromir," said Faramir, sighing, "I know that I haven't exactly been—myself—lately, but you're going to have to trust me on this. It isn't safe for you to be wandering around by yourself in this state, and, whatever the dictates of Life or Necessity or Duty may be, you certainly aren't going to be of any use to Gondor if you get yourself devoured by carrion in the middle of the sodding Westfold. I'm coming with you, and there isn't anything you can do to change my mind."

Boromir rolled his eyes in reluctant assent. "Fine. I'll let you come along—for now, anyway."

Faramir smiled triumphantly. "Good boy. I have some fresh bandages in my pack; they should help, though I'm certainly no healer."

"I've just about had it with healers, to be quite honest."

"It's a good thing I found you when I did," added Faramir, rummaging through his supplies in search of some gauze. "Did you know that you've been going the wrong direction the entire time? I _did_ always tell you never to use MapQuest, you know."

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0**

Contrary to Boromir and Faramir's suspicions, however, word of Faramir's dereliction of duty had _not_ yet reached the Steward's ears. There was no price on Faramir's head. There was no warrant for his arrest. So far as Denethor knew, Faramir was buried deep the wilds of Ithilien, shooting squirrels and pissing in bushes and learning to tie knots and whatever else he and his little troop of green-hooded Boy Scouts did out there in the woods all day. This lack of information on Denethor's part was not due to a depressing sluggishness in the transmission rates of Gondorian gossip—which were, in fact, reckoned at being 3.5 percent faster than the going speed of Minas Tirith's swiftest couriers—but to a simple lack of common observational skills on the part of Faramir's Rangers. Because Faramir's Rangers, it so happened, had not yet noticed that he was missing.

This was perhaps not so very remarkable as it sounds. The Rangers of Ithilien were military men, trained to follow orders and not to ask too many questions, and, as such, they very rarely took it upon themselves to ponder the movements of their Captain. If Captain Faramir was absent from a scouting mission, then it was generally assumed that he was back at Henneth Annûn, planning a secret strategy. If Captain Faramir was absent from a strategy meeting, then it was generally assumed that he was out in the forest, leading a secret scouting mission. That Faramir might, in fact, be sitting barefoot in the upper branches of a nearby tree, drinking a bottle and reading a book, never occurred to them. (The latter scenario had never _actually_ taken place in reality, it must be noted, though Faramir did keep a flask of tequila and an enormous Sindarin anthology stashed at the top of a large spruce tree, just in case). Whether this blind trust was due to the fact that he was a Captain men would follow even under the shadow of the black wings or the fact that his men had a rather shocking lack of imagination, Faramir had never determined to his satisfaction, but, whatever the true cause, it worked decidedly in Faramir's favor on this occasion. None of Faramir's Rangers had seen Faramir in several days, but they all immediately assumed that he was simply somewhere else, doing the necessary and sometimes inscrutable work required of him by his captaincy.

Anborn finally discovered the letter that Faramir had left for him quite by accident. Wandering into the roughly-hewn back cave that Faramir used as his office space in search of a pair of scissors, he happened to spot a large quantity of mail sitting in an untidy, unopened stack on the far corner of the desk. That the envelope on top was addressed to "Hey You" indicated that some of the missives were from Denethor. Anborn began to experience misgivings. Faramir always opened his mail. Always. Even the free brochures that Rohan's Environmental Protection Agency kept sending him. It was just the way he did things.

And then he saw it. Propped up against a pot of what appeared to be dead geraniums was another letter, and this letter, Anborn realized suddenly, was addressed to _him._

Using the pair of scissors he'd only just managed to find among all the paperwork, Anborn slit the envelope.

_Dear Anborn,_

_Circumstances require that I leave Henneth Annûn on an extended trip. I do not know how long I will be gone or when I can be expected back. I am putting you in charge in my absence. There is bread, dried meat, and several casks of wine in the back storeroom. If there is an emergency, you are to contact the garrison at Osgiliath for help, but absolutely_ NO CRANK COURIERS_, and _DON'T _think I won't find out._

_Don't let in any strangers. Lights-out is at eight o'clock._

_-Captain Faramir_

_P.S. Please water my geraniums._

Anborn folded the letter up once more, silently, methodically, a slow and devious smile spreading across his face. "Damrod!" he called.

Damrod scurried into the room. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing's wrong," replied Anborn smugly, tucking the letter into the pocket of his cloak. "Just the Captain's gone off on a secret mission. And he's left _me_ in charge."

"_You?"_ repeated Damrod incredulously. "Why _you?"_

"Oh, wipe that terrible expression off your face, Dammy; it makes you look like a constipated fish. I can't help it if Captain Faramir likes me better than he likes _you._" Anborn clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "But think about it! We have the run of the whole place now, no one ordering us about or breathing down our necks... do you know what I think we'll do, Dammy?"

"What do you think we'll do?" asked Damrod, somewhat hesitantly.

"I think we'll throw the biggest house party this two-bit woodland joint has ever seen!"

**0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0**

**A/n:** What?! What?! It's been less than a week and Eggo has already updated _twice?!_ How can this be?!

Well, I'm doing it for the good of mankind, really. I figure that if I can just get hell to freeze over, then the resultant temperature difference will be enough to counteract the effects of global warming, and we can all continue to drive our SUVs with impunity and without having to worry about its effects on penguins and baby polar bears.

Since I'm so noble and self-sacrificing, you might as well review.


End file.
